The Final Hunt
by CravenHellsing
Summary: Sequel to 'The Hunt Is On'. Moriarty is back somehow, and there are supernatural effects at lly must help Sherlock figure out what is happening before he loses all of the people he cares about. Along the way realizations are made, confusion runs abound, hearts are torn asunder, and a certain dominatrix is not who she seems. Rated M for language and violence.
1. The Hero Falls

**Hello everyone! So this is the sequel to 'The Hunt is On' that came to me after watching _The Reichenbach Fall_. This story is much more oriented towards the _Supernatural _stories and will contain far more adventure and violence than the first story (hence the rating). **

**I also went against my own philosophy and decided to post this first chapter before writing the rest of the story. Think of it as a wee little teaser. Review** please!

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><p>Molly clutched the cup of tea in her hands, willing them to stop shaking. She could almost feel John's burning stare as he looked down upon her. Finally Molly set the cup aside and looked up to meet the desperate man's eyes.<p>

"I'm so sorry John…but there is no way to bring him back."

* * *

><p><em>It had only been a month after the events in the warehouse. Moriarty's death and her near death had awoken something in Molly. She was…stronger now. Stronger in mind, body, and spirit. <em>

_A new relationship had also bloomed between Molly and Sherlock; one of a teacher and a student. Nearly every night after the warehouse incident Sherlock would show up at the mortuary with a list of questions he wished to ask of Molly. _

"_How do you identify a rugaru before it eats 'long-pig' for the first time."_

"_Why would an angel choose to 'fall' to Earth?"_

"_Is there such thing as God?"_

_Molly did her best to answer the questions to the best of her ability, and, when she couldn't answer something, she would call up her Uncle. Sherlock showed his appreciation by bringing her coffee to work. _

_But soon things began to get back to normal…sort of. John and Sherlock would go out and solve their mysterys, and Molly would act as their ever faithful morgue attendant. The only difference was that the two men, plus Lestrade, treated her with far more respect than they used to before. They also learned not to question when they would find her burning a random corpse in the crematorium, or when they would walk in to find their recent murder victim missing their head. _

_Just came with the territory of having a hunter for a friend. _

_Of course, as is natural, when things go up, then must come down._

_And down everything came. _

_Hard._

* * *

><p><em>It all started with the text message from John. Molly was doing some paperwork in her office before she went home when her phone went off. It played the normal buzz, so she knew it wasn't Dean (although, she honestly wasn't expecting anything from him. He hadn't contacted her since Sam…).<em>

_Molly shook her head and picked up the phone and flipped it open, taking a sip of her morning decaf. _

_The coffee slid from her fingers and crashed to the floor. _

"_Oh…no…no no no no…" was all Molly could choke out. Her hand covered her mouth for a moment. Then she gripped the phone tight in both hands and quickly typed out a message to John._

Are you sure?

_Molly clutched the phone tightly, taking in deep breaths. She felt the phone buzz._

Yes

_Molly let out a choked sob, and then her face became furious. She abandoned her paperwork and raced home as quickly as her motorcycle would allow. _

_She spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone instead of sleeping. She called every contact she knew; a man in London who guarded the crossroads where she had made the deal with Crowley just a month before, Micky in Ireland, and a hunter in Russia who refused to give her his name but didn't mind going by 'Russian Dean'. No one had heard of any souls being whisked out of hell recently. _

_She realized she was going to have to go to the big-wig if she were to get any answers. _

_Traveling to the crossroads and calling up Crowley was much easier the second time around. Maybe because, instead of being full of fear and trepidation, she was angry. So angry._

"_This was not part of our agreement Crowley! How the hell did Moriarty's soul get out of hell?" she screamed. Crowley stood off to the side, a glare on his face. He rubbed his lip, then shrugged._

"_I don't know."_

_Molly stopped pacing. She turned to the demon, her eyes wide._

"_You don't know? You don't know how a human soul got out of hell? Especially since you are the self-proclaimed King of freaking Hell now!"_

_Molly covered her mouth as the wind caught her words, carrying them over the dusty hills. Crowley didn't say anything, just raised an eyebrow._

"_He had to have had help," he said after a few moments of stunted silence. Molly lowered her hands and took a deep breath._

"_Dean got out of Hell because of Castiel. Do you think Moriarty had an angel help him?"_

_Crowley shrugged._

"_I'm not sure. Could have been an angel. Could have been a demon."_

_Molly crouched down and placed her face in her hands. Just when everything was finally going right, she moaned to herself. She stiffened when she felt a hand on her shoulder._

"_I will ask," Crowley said. Molly looked up at him, an incredulous look on her face._

"_Why are you helping me?" she asked._

_And just like that he was gone. Molly sighed and stood up straight. She sniffed and rolled her shoulders, trying to figure out what to do next._

_Hopping back on her bike she just rode for a while. She took in deep breaths of the country air, gunning the bike to go faster and faster._

_She knew she was being reckless, but she couldn't help it. She loved the rush. It cleared her head and helped her think. Somehow she wound up outside of 221B Baker Street. She idled on the street, staring up at the window. Suddenly her cell phone went off. _

Are you going to sit out there all day?

SH

_Molly chuckled slightly. Nice to see someone was still acting the same, given the circumstances. _

_Molly parked her motorcycle and walked into the flat. She didn't even bother she entered the flat she was almost disturbed by the quiet in the room. John was sitting in his favorite chair, a cup of tea in his hands. He was holding a newspaper. Molly flinched when she saw that Moriarty was on the front, a large smile on his face. _

"_Oh, hello Molly," John greeted tiredly. Molly nodded her head to him, then glanced in the kitchen. Sherlock was sitting at the table, his eyes firmly planted on his microscope._

"_Molly, there is a reason you were outside," he said, not even looking up from the microscope. John gave her his 'that's-Sherlock-for-you' look and turned back to the paper. Molly smiled slightly and walked into the kitchen. She sat down in the sat across from his and raced her hands along the table._

"_Molly," Sherlock warned sternly. Molly smiled slightly. A month ago she would have flinched and tittered away like a frightened school girl._

"_I spoke to Crowley," she said softly, tracing the grooves in the table._

"_Oh?" Sherlock didn't even look up from the microscope._

"_He doesn't know how Moriarty escaped. He's going to find out, though."_

_Sherlock finally looked up from the microscope. He caught Molly's eyes._

"_You are scared," he said after a moment of silence. Molly stared back._

"_Terrified."_

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><p><em>However scared she was, Molly knew she couldn't allow Moriarty to get the best of her. Not yet anyway. She went to work as normal, slept a couple of hours when she got home, then spent the rest of the time scouring books to try and find an explanation. <em>

_It was a couple of days after the famous 'James Moriarty Court Case' where the madman was found innocent that Molly found Sherlock in her lab for the first time since she had spoken to him at his flat. _

_He looked…haggard. And tired. So very very tired. _

_John stood off to the side and was looking through some photographs whilst Sherlock was performing expiriments on some woods chips. Molly assisted him as best as she could. She knew he disliked when people interfered or got in the way. _

_She kept watching him. Watching his face. The way he would glance up at John every once in awhile._

"_Sherlock, you know something," she said softly._

"_I know many things," he interjected. Molly rolled her eyes._

"_You know you remind me a lot of Dean."_

_Sherlock looked up, a bit confused._

"_Your cousin?" he asked._

"_Brother, more like. He and I…he used to look after me, and Sam, when no one else would."_

_Sherlock nodded and looked back into the telescope. Molly pressed her lips together in trepidation and annoyance. She wondered how she could get out what she wanted to say without sounding insensitive._

"_Did I ever tell you that he died?" she finally said. Sherlock sat back and glanced over at Molly in mild surprise. She took this as a sign and pressed forward._

"_About 2 years ago, Sam was killed by a man named Jake Talley. Dean couldn't deal with the fact that he had lost his brother, so he sold his soul to save Sam. But, Dean being Dean, pissed off the crossroads demon that he made the deal with. He was only given a year instead of the typical ten. Do you remember when I took like a month off of work awhile back. Said I was visiting some friends from school. I'm pretty sure you don't, you were pretty preoccupied with that triple homicide."_

_Sherlock stared at Molly._

"_No, I do remember that. Your replacement wouldn't let me take any bodies from the morgue," Sherlock murmured. Molly laughed slightly. Sherlock turned back to the microscope._

"_Is there a point to this story?"_

_Molly sighed._

"_When Dean was getting closer to…to his time being up. He was so nice to us. To me, and Sam, and Bobby. He was always trying to cheer us up. But when he was alone…he was sad. I saw him once."_

_Molly looked up at Sherlock, who had yet again torn away from the microscope to stare down at the woman._

"_You look sad Sherlock…when you think he isn't looking," she motioned with her chin towards John. Sherlock glanced at the man, then back down at Molly._

"_But you can see me," he said softly._

"_Yeah, but I don't count."_

_It was true. Although she had saved his life (or so she thought), and although she had introduced him to a world that he had previously been ignorant too (to his annoyance), she did not consider herself in the same standing as John. At least, when it came to Sherlock. _

_She reached up and placed a careful hand on his shoulder. She felt him flinch slightly, but ignored it._

"_Sherlock, if you need anything...you can count on me," she said softly. Sherlock glanced back down at her. _

"_I'm serious Sherlock. If you need anything, I will help you. You deserve it," she said before getting up slowly._

"_I'm going to go get some crisps. Want anything?" _

_Sherlock shook his head and watched the woman walk away, the gears spinning frantically in his head at her words._

* * *

><p><em>She didn't expect it.<em>

_She didn't want it._

_But, somehow, she knew that it would happen. The Sherlock would take her offer and run with it. _

_She watched from an alleyway nearby, her dark clothes hiding her from view. She covered her mouth when she saw Sherlock reaching out to John. _

_When Sherlock had scared her in the morgue just hours before, she didn't know what would happen. But the confession of his fear, his certainty, that he was slated to die soon, sealed the fact that Molly's life was about to take a drastic turn. _

_So she made a call. A couple of calls, actually. She even said a prayer or two. _

_And then she hid in the alleyway. For hours. She made a call at about six am to John's cell from a disposable she had picked up only an hour before. She lowered her voice slightly, convincing him that Mrs. Hudson had been shot in their home._

_She had watched as the man fled the hospital. _

_And now she had to cover her mouth as the tears came to her eyes. She could see the emotions passing across John's face; fear, pain, longing, grief, and disbelief. _

_She couldn't hear what Sherlock was telling the man, but she could see, even from her vantage point, that he was crying. And those weren't the fake tears that he was oh so good at._

_Those were real, honest-to-god tears._

_Molly nearly screamed when he jumped. She wanted to run, but she held fast. She saw, just barely, the flash of someone underneath Sherlock, before he fell to the ground with a sickening thud._

_She motioned with her hand. A couple of people bolted out of the alleyway. She watched John run forward, then get clipped by the biker she had hired. He fell to the ground with a muffled heap, but still managed to slowly make his way over to Sherlock. She watched him grab the man's hand and check his pulse. Molly clutched the wall in worry as the people began to load Sherlock onto a gurney. One of the other people held onto John's shoulders as the others wheeled Sherlock around to where Molly was hiding._

_Molly turned and followed them into the hospital. But, instead of wheeling him into the hospital itself they wheeled him into the morgue. _

_Molly paid the people, associates of Sherlock's of whom he had met through his homeless network, before sending them on their way. She walked over to Sherlock and flinched slightly, staring at his lifeless eyes and pale, cold skin. She took a syringe from her pocket and injected it quickly into Sherlock's exposed arm._

"_Castiel, take care of him," she said into the air as she placed her hands over the man's eyes, shutting them firmly. _

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><p>It was now the day after the funeral. Molly, John, and Mrs. Hudson sat in the elderly woman's parlor sipping tea and remaining all together silent. Mrs. Hudson finally seemed to have had enough. She slipped out of the room saying something about 'all of those dishes', leaving Molly and John in the room alone.<p>

"Is Moriarty really dead this time?" John asked into the silence. Molly rubbed her eyes, careful to not smudge her makeup any more than she had already.

"It would seem like it," she said softly. John opened his mouth, closed it again, then took a sip of his tea. Molly stared at the man, then set her own cup on the side table.

"John, why did you call me over?" she asked softly. He glanced swiftly over at her.

"Molly…is there any way we could bring Sherlock back?" he whispered hopefully. This was what Molly had been afraid of. She picked up her tea again and clutched it in her hands, willing them to stop shaking. She could almost feel John's burning stare as he looked down upon her. Finally Molly set the cup aside and looked up to meet the desperate man's eyes.

"I'm so sorry John…but there is no way to bring him back," she lied smoothly.

John huffed and looked down.

"Then how did Moriarty come back?" he spat. Molly shook her head, trying to ignore the grief and hatred in his voice.

"I'm not sure John, but…but that's why I came here. To say goodbye."

John's eyes widened as he looked up at Molly.

"What? What do you…what do you mean 'goodbye'?"

Molly flinched. She hated saying goodbye to people. To…finite. But in this situation…

"John, I'm going back to my Uncles. After everything…after losing Sam…and now Sherlock…it's just…gotten to be a bit much. So I'm going to get back to hunting for a bit."

John stared at Molly, his eyes wide. Molly allowed this to go on for a moment longer before she stood up and started to put her coat on. John stood up with her and placed his hand on her shoulder.

"Let me come with you," he nearly begged. Molly sighed and shook her head. She felt terrible, to be doing this to John, but it had to be done. Molly placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back down into the chair.

"No, John…we've already lost Sherlock. I won't lose you too. Stay here, take care of Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and…try to repair Sherlock's good name, won't you? You and I both know that crap in the paper is just that…please," she pressed. She had to make John understand that he had to stay safe. John finally nodded and slumped into the chair. She was just turning to go when she heard his voice.

"Just…keep me updated, please? On how you are doing. You are my friend too Molly."

Molly turned slightly and nodded before shutting the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat. She pulled her hood over her head as the heavy rain battered down on her. She hailed a taxi and made her way to Scotland Yard to say goodbye to one more friend.

When she entered the room the first people she spotted were Donovan and Anderson. Molly grimaced. She had heard that they were the ones that first accused Sherlock of being a fake. She brushed past them as they stared at her. She had only worked with either of them a handful of times, but she disliked the both of them greatly.

She quietly knocked on the door to Lestrade's office.

"Come in," she heard him say softly. Molly entered the office, shutting the door behind her.

"Well hello there Molly," he said, standing up. Molly nodded her head.

"Greg, how are you?"

"I've…been better," he said simply. Molly nodded in agreement. Then she sighed and sat down in the chair in front of his desk.

"Greg…I've come to say goodbye," she said softly. Lestrade stared at her, an eyebrow raised in confusion.

"Goodbye? Where are you off too?"

"America. I'm moving back in with my Uncle. With my cousin's death…well, he needs a bit of help now," she shrugged slightly.

Lestrade looked…perplexed. He knew, somewhat, what Molly was, and what she did. And he also knew that Moriarty should have been done long before Sherlock's death. But he stood up anyway and held out his hand.

"Molly Hooper, it has been a pleasure knowing you."

Molly smiled, a genuine smile, and took his hand in a tight grasp. She turned around quickly, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve, when she came face to face with Anderson and Donovan. The woman leaned against the door frame, her eyes scrutinizing Molly whilst Anderson just looked like…well, Anderson; smug, snooty, and an all around asshole.

"Aren't you the morgue attendant from St. Bart's?" Anderson asked.

"Ex-morgue attendant. Quite my job this morning."

"I heard a rumor that you had a thing for Ole' Freak," Donovan interrupted. Molly raised an eyebrow.

"Donovan, Anderson, that is enough," Lestrade said behind Molly.

"Why would you like someone like him? He's a fake. Don't you read the papers?" Anderson said, ignoring Lestrade. Both of Molly's eyebrows rose into her hairline.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to believe everything you read in the papers?" Molly asked. She started to brush past the man when she heard him mutter something. She stopped, anger marring her features slightly.

"What was that?" she asked without turning.

"I said 'Good riddance'," Anderson stated a little louder, dark laughter in his voice. Donovan began to titter next to him. Molly clenched her fists, then smiled.

What the hell, she thought.

Without thinking she turned around, grabbed the front of Anderson's shirt in her right fist, and pulled him into her forehead. He screamed and clutched his now bleeding nose. Donovan ran forward and tried to help the man, but he pushed her away in anger. Donovan turned and yelled at Lestrade.

"What are you waiting for? Arrest her! She just assaulted Anderson!"

Lestrade chuckled and placed a hand on Molly's shoulder.

"I didn't see anything."

Donovan scowled and turned around on her heel to follow Anderson, who was trying to make it to the bathroom without getting blood everywhere. Molly watched them go, then turned to face Lestrade. He clapped her once more on the shoulder.

"Have a good trip," he said softly.

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><p>Molly yawned as she entered her nearly empty apartment, a takeout bag in hand. She set the bag down on the ground and took off her shoes. Today had been an exhausting day to say the least.<p>

"You are late," came a voice out of the darkness. Molly jumped and started to reach for the gun in her purse when the lights came on.

"Jesus, Sherlock, don't do that."


	2. Blondes Have More Fun

**So here is Chapter 2 for you! I'm sooooo sorry, i actually meant to post this last week. But my laptop decided to crap out. I had it in the shop all weekend and I just got it back an hour ago. My first priority was to get this chapter up for ya'll! **

**Anyway, review for me please. And, since i think i forgot this in the first chapter, i would like to exclaim my disclaim of Sherlock and Supernatural...Enjoy!**

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><p>Molly made her way through the empty room, save for some furniture she didn't need to pack, and sat down on the couch next to Sherlock. She pulled the takeout out of the bag and handed one to Sherlock, who took it with some pretense. He was still staring at her when she began to eat. Finally she slammed the chopsticks into the little box.<p>

"Sherlock, what did I say about staring?" she snapped.

"You have blood on your forehead," he ignored her. Molly crossed her eyes and attempted to look up at her forehead, earning an eye roll from Sherlock. He wet his thumb on his tongue and swiped it across her forehead. Molly's eyebrow went up at the simple, intimate gesture.

"Whose blood is it?" Sherlock asked. Molly's surprise melted away as an evil little grin replaced it.

"Anderson's," she said simply as she took a bite of her noodles. A sudden knock at the door made Molly jump. She glanced at Sherlock, who nodded and quietly made his way into her bathroom. She waited until he was out of the room then made her way quietly over to the door. She walked over and looked through the peephole, then breathed a quick sigh of relief.

"It's okay Sherlock, you can come out!" she hollered as she opened the door.

"Evening Mycroft."

"Miss Hooper," Mycroft greeted before sweeping into the flat just as Sherlock exited the bathroom. He opted to ignore his brother and instead turned back to his food. Mycroft sighed and turned to Molly.

"Your flight leaves in the morning," he said. Then he held out a small bag.

"And I brought the things you need."

Molly took the bag and thanked him. Mycroft glanced one more time at Sherlock, who was continually ignoring Mycroft, before turning back to Molly. He held out two other items; credit cards.

"I know how hard the life of a hunter is. I thought these might come in handy."

Molly took the credit cards, a look of astonishment on her face. Mycroft turned to go, then turned back around and bent down until he was at Molly's 5'6" height.

"Take care of him…please?"

"I will," Molly promised. Mycroft nodded and stood to his full height. Without another word the man left the empty flat. Molly shut the door after him, then turned to Sherlock.

"Don't say it, Molly," Sherlock snapped, setting his nearly untouched Chinese down. Molly shrugged whilst she pocketed one of the credit cards and held the other out to Sherlock.

"Wasn't going too," she muttered. She did want too, though. She wanted to tell Sherlock that this may be the last time he sees his brother. That he should be a bit nicer to said brother. But she knew it would fall onto deaf ears. Sherlock stared at the card in her hand, then took it to examine it further. After a moment he slid the credit card into his back pocket.

"It did surprise me to know that your brother _knows_ about the supernatural," Molly mentioned as she sat back down on the couch, placing the bag beside her.

"He knows everything…or at least he thinks he does."

"Surprised me even more to find out he knows Dean and Sam."

"_Knew_ Sam," Sherlock interrupted.

"Shut up Sherlock," Molly said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her. This new Molly…she was intriguing to him. Strong, confidant, and _nothing _like the old one.

"What did Mycroft bring you?" he asked suddenly as he picked at his food. Molly smiled slightly and pulled the bag closer to her legs. Sherlock stared at it.

"Molly, that bag obviously has clothes in it. And there is a long, possibly rectangular box in the left corner. I repeat myself; what did Mycroft bring you?"

Molly sighed.

"Fine fine fine. Sherlock you are a little…noticeable. And since we have to take a plane, and couch class to boot-"

"What?" Sherlock snapped. Molly rolled her eyes.

"We have to remain inconspicuous. Taking first class makes us noticeable. I'm…ordinary looking enough. But you…everyone knows what you look like. We have to change that."

Sherlock's eyes widened.

* * *

><p>"What have you done to my hair?" Sherlock yelled. He was standing in Molly's bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist as he twisted his forelocks in his fingers. Molly looked on in amusement.<p>

"It isn't that bad. And we can dye it back when all of the hubbub dies down about you," Molly pushed herself off of the doorframe and walked back into the living room. She bent over and picked up the bag Mycroft had dropped off earlier. She dumped it on the floor and began pulling the articles of clothing apart. Something clattered to the floor, catching her attention. She picked it up and her eyebrow rose.

It was a flash drive.

"I'm _blonde_ Molly," Sherlock moaned as he entered the living room. Molly looked up at him, then back down quickly. She wasn't ready to see Sherlock in nothing but a towel.

"Well, they say blondes have more fun," she joked. She threw the clothing to him, but he was looking at the flash drive in her hand.

"Why do you have that?" he asked her. Molly shrugged.

"Get dressed and we'll look at it."

Molly pulled her laptop out of her already-packed carryon bag and began the process of setting it up.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," she heard from the bathroom. She turned and started laughing. Apparently Mycroft had a sense of humor.

He had tried to mimic a typical American hunter's garb. A regular blue t-shirt that hugged Sherlock's thin frame, baggy blue jeans, and military grade boots. The reason behind Molly's laughter, however, was the look on Sherlock's face as he stared down at the flannel shirt. Molly never imagined she would ever see him in a blue and black flannel button up shirt. That, coupled with his now curling blonde hair, nearly sent Molly into hysterics.

"Why can't I wear my regular clothing?" he asked. Molly continued to laugh, tears pricking in the corners of her eyes and she leaned back on the couch. Sherlock sat down and sulked beside her until she stopped laughing.

"I repeat; why can't I wear-"

"Because Sherlock," she interrupted. "For one, you're well known. People wouldn't expect someone as posh as you to wear something like this. And secondly, you can't hunt in your old clothes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Not say that he wasn't mildly looking forward to learn how to hunt, but the garb was going to take a little getting used too.

"Molly, the flash drive. What is it?"

Molly snapped to and sat up, plugging the flash drive into her laptop. She pulled up the file, then sat back.

"What is it?" she asked. Sherlock got the look, the 'contemplation' look, on his face. Even blonde and clad in flannel the man couldn't get rid of his Sherlock-y-ness.

"It is the CCTV from the warehouse," he said softly. Molly nodded, recognizing the man that was pacing back and forth and the other man tied to the chair. Molly shut her eyes when Moriarty began to slice into Sherlock's chest, gasping slightly. Suddenly she heard another gasp.

"Molly, open your eyes, you might want to see this," Sherlock said. Molly opened her eyes as Sherlock backed up the video a bit. Moriarty had his back to the surveillance camera as he sliced into Sherlock. Suddenly he looked back, seemingly caught off guard, and the camera caught his face. Molly gasped again.

"Is that…is that what I think it is?"

"I think so. I read about it in one of your Uncle's books. I believe it is called _retinal flare_?" Sherlock turned to Molly, who, even though Sherlock had read quite a bit about hunting, Molly was more of the expert.

"Yeah…yeah it is. But…that can only be one thing."

"There is another file on this drive," Sherlock pointed out when Molly went momentarily silent. He clicked on the file and pulled it up. This time it was a CCTV of St. Bart's rooftop. Moriarty was sitting alone, his cellphone held out to his side. His head bobbed slightly. Suddenly he looked over as another figure, Sherlock, walked out onto the roof.

"There it was again," Sherlock pointed out. Moriarty's eyes had, for a very brief moment, flashed. Suddenly Molly's eyes widened.

"I get it…holy shit I get it," she said. Sherlock glanced at the woman but chose not to comment on her choice of words.

"For once, I am lost," Sherlock said, something he wasn't happy about admitting.

"Moriarty is…I think the Moriarty's we keep encountering are _shifters_."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose.

"You are correct Miss Hooper."

Molly spun around, pulling a gun from the waist band of her jeans and turning the safety off. Sherlock stood up slowly to face the man suddenly standing in the room.

"Crowley," Molly greeted, cocking the gun.

"Now now Miss Hooper. I've been gathering some information for you, so you can put the gun away."

Molly glared at the demon, then clicked the safety back on and put the gun away.

"So the Moriarty from the warehouse and the Moriarty on the roof…they were shifters?" Sherlock asked, stepping up beside Molly to face down the demon.

"Mr. Holmes," Crowley greeted. "You are looking quite…blonde."

Molly snorted whilst Sherlock glared at the demon. Crowley grinned.

"You are correct Mr. Holmes. I spoke to some of my associates. The James Moriarty that I took to hell wasn't the James Moriarty that sold his soul to me. In fact-"

"It wasn't James Moriarty," Molly interrupted. Crowley nodded.

"It was a shape shifter. It might surprise you to know that those creatures do have souls….at at least a form of a soul. Found the little bastard in Purgatory."

"Spare me the tales Crowley. You got anything else for me," Molly snapped. Sherlock looked down at the woman in surprise. He watched her hands stray towards her gun. Suddenly he had a thought.

"What did James Moriarty sell his soul for?"

Molly glanced up at Sherlock.

"We already know," she whispered.

"No, we know what the shifter told us."

Crowley watched the exchange between the two, a sly smile on his face. The two eyed each other for a moment, and then turned to glare at Crowley, who held his hands up.

"Sorry. Demon-Human confidentiality."

"Crowley, this isn't a doctor's office. And Demon's don't keep secrets if they know it can screw someone over. Besides…this man has been evading you for quite some time now. Obviously the real Moriarty isn't dead otherwise he would be in Hell. And you've already told me that his time is up. We are going to find him, but we need all of the information we can get."

Crowley smirked.

"I like you Miss Hooper. You've got your Uncle's attitude. Alright, I'll tell you. James Moriarty sold his soul in exchange for the ability to place the monsters of the world under his control. At the time I thought it an odd request, but I just thought he might some disturbed little individual and it would give me at least a decade of entertainment."

Molly's eyes had widened to the size of saucers by the end of Crowley's rant. Sherlock simply crossed his arms.

"That _would _explain it," Sherlock said. Molly turned to Sherlock, an eyebrow raised.

"No shit, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyebrows went up at Molly's tone. He could tell she was angry. Very angry.

"I hate how you demons think that you can play with us humans like-"

She turned around and Crowley was gone. Molly clenched her fists and very nearly looked as though she were going to punch something. Sherlock stared at the girl, and then smirked slightly.

"I like this new Molly," he said softly. Molly glared up at him, but he could see a slight smile tugging at her lips.

"Shut up Sherlock.

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat at the bar at the airport, his eyes scanning the people around him. He rolled his eyes as he watched them walk by. People on their cell phones, families with children…it was all so boring. He looked down at the passport he held in his hand. Mycroft had dropped off these new ID's this morning. Apparently the night before Molly had taken a picture of Sherlock on her cellphone when he wasn't looking, and had forwarded the picture to Mycroft.<p>

He wrinkled his nose when he read the name.

**Shea McTavish**

He took a sip from his bottle of water and wondered who would actually have the name _Shea_. And why was his surname Scottish? Suddenly he heard something on the television in the corner that drew his attention.

"_And now let's take a look at the biggest story trending right now; the fall of the Reichenbach Hero, Sherlock Holmes. We went out into the streets to ask the people what they think; do they think Mr. Holmes is a fake, or was it all a set up? Let's join Benjamin O'Malley on the streets. Benjamin?"_

The scene switched to a young man in a grey suit.

"_Thanks Mark. I'm here to ask people how they feel about the recent headlines denouncing Sherlock Holmes' abilities to deduce and convict the many crimes and criminals. Ma'am, what do you think? Do you think Sherlock Holmes was a fake?"_

A woman stopped on the streets. Sherlock watched in rapt fascination, not noticing the second person sit down next to him and order a coffee.

"_Of course he was a fake. No one can be that smart. Good riddance I say. I think he was a psychopath, if you ask me."_

"_And how about you sir?" _the reporter asked a chubby older man.

"_I don't believe a word those tabloids say. I have a nephew that is a savant. The boy can't talk, can barely walk, and needs help to eat. But damn it, that boy can solve mathematical equations that some university graduates can't do. So I think people need to budge off the man. He did what he had the ability to do. It t'were not his fault that he was smarter than everyone else."_

Sherlock smirked slightly. It was nice to know that some people weren't quite as stupid.

"What do ya think?" sounded a female voice beside Sherlock. The man glanced down at the African American woman beside him. She was American, judging by her heavy southern accent. She was single and slightly overweight, and just a bit older than Sherlock. Other than that Sherlock couldn't get much from her.

"What do I think about what?" Sherlock asked, trying to raise the pitch of his voice slightly. Molly had told him that he had a very distinct voice, and the last thing they needed was someone recognizing him.

"About that Sherlock man," she gestured to the television. Sherlock glanced up at the television, then back at the woman.

"I…think he is a fake. No one is that smart," Sherlock said slowly. The woman shook her head.

"Nah, I don't think so. I've met some smart ones, and I've met some dumb ones. And that boy is a smart one. Could outsmart the devil, he could."

Sherlock smirked slightly, adjusting his shades to make sure the woman couldn't see his eyes.

"So you don't think he faked all of those crimes?" Sherlock asked, sipping his water.

"Nah…I also don't think he's dead."

Sherlock started. He set the bottle down quickly and turned to the woman who was starting to get up. He briefly heard the intercom call for boarding for a flight to Kansas, but was distracted by the thoughts rushing through his head. Most prevalent of all; did she recognize me?

"That's my flight. I'll be seeing you youngin'."

Sherlock moved to stand up and follow the woman when he suddenly felt another presence beside him.

"Sher-…Shea, are you alright, you look as pale as a sheet," Molly said. Sherlock sat back down and shook his head.

"I'm fine," he finished off his water and threw the bottle away.

"Our flight will be boarding soon," he said, picking up his carryon. Molly nodded, glancing at the man worriedly, before following him. They got through security fairly easy (Sherlock was patted down but nothing past that) and they boarded the crowded plane with very little incident. Once on the plane they took their seats near the back. Molly took the aisle seat whilst Sherlock took the window.

As the plane began to take off Molly clutched Sherlock's wrist. He looked over at her in amusement.

"Afraid of flying?"

"A bit. I'll be better once we're higher up," she said, clutching his wrist tightly. Suddenly Sherlock peeled her fingers from his wrist and allowed her hand to hold his own hand. Molly glanced at him in mild surprise, then shut her eyes quickly and squeezed when the plane began to ascend.

Once it was finally up in the air she took a deep breath and let go, allowing Sherlock to massage the circulation back into his fingers.

"'Scuse me dear, are you afraid of flying too?" came a kindly-looking, obviously British woman asked. Molly nodded.

"Yeah. I've never been too keen on it," Molly said, adopting an American accent. When she had first spoken in the accent earlier that day, Sherlock had been surprised at how good she was at it. And then he remembered that she had been raised in America.

"Either am I. I'm off to a funeral in Maine. My son-in-law is picking me up in New York. What about you two?"

Molly had a momentary panic moment. She and Sherlock had never discussed their backstory. They had assumed that the fake name would be enough. So she blurted the first thing that came to her.

"We're on our honeymoon."

Sherlock, who had been focusing on the clouds outside of the window (actually, he had been analyzing the people on the plane, but people knew when they were being stared at so he did it discreetly), glanced over sharply. He saw a flush rising on Molly's neck.

"Oh really?" the woman asked, looking down at Molly. Suddenly Sherlock noticed a flaw in Molly's story, and the old woman seemed to have noticed too.

"We're eloping, actually," Sherlock said. Molly raised an eyebrow at the man. He discreetly tapped his finger onto her left ring finger. Her mouth formed a slight 'O' as she realized what he meant.

"Yeah, we're eloping in New York," she said, turning back to the old lady. The older lady smiled and clapped her hands.

"Oh, how romantic. Why did you two have to elope?" she asked. He felt Molly stiffen. Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly, then plastered a big, fake smile on his face.

"My parents, the blue-bloods that they are, couldn't contend with the fact that I wished to marry a middle-class American. So we're eloping."

The older woman sighed. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes and scoff at how…female, the woman was acting. Molly played along, even going so far as to take Sherlock's hand again.

"Yes, his parents couldn't know which is why we don't have any rings."

Sherlock nodded, and then raised Molly's hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. The flush on Molly's neck overtook her whole face. The older woman clapped her hands again. Then she began to stand up as the fasten safety-belt light turned off.

"Excuse me," she said, then stopped beside Molly. She placed her hand on the younger girls shoulder.

"And don't worry dear, your secret is safe with me," she said sweetly. Molly blanched and she felt Sherlock tighten his hold on her hand.

"S-secret?"

"Oh yes dear. Back in my day it happened all the time; brides would get married quick, and then just a few months after they would have the baby. They always denounced the baby as a premature, but those babies were just a bit too big to be premature. At least you are getting married. The things the girls get up to these days."

Molly watched the woman walk away to the rest room, her eyes wide and her jaw dropped. She turned back into her seat and glanced up at Sherlock, who had an amused expression on his face.

"Did she…" Molly stopped, her mind processing what the woman had said.

"Did she think I am pregnant?" Molly asked, horror creeping into her tone.

Sherlock couldn't help it. He began to laugh. A good solid laugh, something he hadn't done in weeks. Molly glared at him and spent the rest of the flight pouting.


	3. The Hunter's Rules

**I would like to give a quick thanks to Supernaturalwiki for all of the extremely useful imformation regarding everything Supernatural. I would also like to thank Sherlockology for the wardrobe information, and other little tidbits, that have enabled me to bring the worlds of Supernatural and Sherlock together as one!**

**I would also like to apologize for how long it is between updates. I promise you, my lovely readers that I WILL be finishing this story. I have an outline of all the chapters and I love this story so much I just couldn't not finish it! **

**And by the way, Sherlock and Supernatural do NOT belong to me! Enjoy!**

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><p>The plane couldn't land soon enough in Molly's opinion. As soon as the wheels touched the earth the hunter and hunter-in-training scrambled to get their things together (well, Molly scrambled. Sherlock just sort of...meandered.)<p>

As soon as they set foot in the terminal just outside of Sioux Falls, South Dakota, Sherlock began to scan the people around him. Most were simple, boring folk. A woman who was obviously having an affair (according to her jewelry), and a man worked with small children (indicative of the stains on his trousers). Sherlock felt a twinge of nervousness. He knew it was unlikely that someone here would recognize him for who he really was, but you never know. Not in this world. Not anymore.

"Shea," Molly said, using Sherlock's alias, as she grabbed his arm. Sherlock looked down at the girl, but she wasn't looking at him. Sherlock followed her gaze. It landed on a grizzled older man with a very large smile on his face.

"Uncle Bobby!" Molly suddenly yelled. She let go of Sherlock and ran forward to throw her arms around the man, who squeezed her tightly in return.

"I've missed you girly," the old man said softly. Molly just nodded in return. Bobby let her back down onto her feet. Molly swiped at her eyes quickly then turned back to Sherlock.

"Uncle Bobby, this is…Shea," she winked. Bobby held out a strong hand, which Sherlock returned handsomely. He stared at the man as he shook his hand.

Abused as a child, if the extremely old scars were any evidence. A grieving widow, even though his wife had obviously been dead a very long time. A traveler, by his clothes (although, to be fair, most hunters all looked travel-worn). A bad alcoholic (he knew this even without looking at Bobby. It was something Molly had mentioned to him once), but he didn't seem to be a violent man. The way he was regarding Molly, with that twinkle in his eye that Sherlock saw in most devoted fathers, spoke of that.

"Sher-Shea, are you ready to go?" Molly interrupted Sherlock's thought process. The man looked down at the shorter woman, then nodded slightly. Bobby regarded Sherlock as one would an interesting bug on his windshield before picking up Molly's bag. Sherlock was left to carry his own bag as he followed the duo. He wrinkled his nose slightly when he saw their transport. He found himself longing for the old London taxi's.

Bobby set Molly's bag into the bed of the rather large, rusty, old blue truck. Sherlock set his own bag down next to hers, then sat on the slightly torn seats. He noticed Molly had a large smile on her face as Bobby started the loud, rumbling engine.

"Molly, where are we going?" Sherlock asked after they had been driving for about thirty minutes. Sherlock felt as though his spine would come out his mouth if they hit one more bump. It was obvious the shocks were shot in the truck.

"Bobby's place," was all she said. Sherlock rolled his eyes (he found himself doing this more often than not lately) and stared out the window. This was not his first trip to America, but it was the first time he had been in the Midwest. It was…much prettier than the internet gave him pretense.

Sherlock didn't realize that he had fallen asleep. Maybe it was the stress of the last few days, or the fact that he hadn't slept in the last few days, but he soon found that once the truck was on paved road the bumping was less annoying and more lulling.

"Sherlock," Molly shook his shoulder gently. She knew the last few days had been hard on him, even if he claimed to be devoid of those sort of petty emotions. He was still human after all.

Sherlock awoke with a start and scanned his surroundings quickly. Maybe it was just his tired mind, or maybe it was the result of having a couple run-ins with the supernatural, but Sherlock found himself being just a bit more paranoid than usual.

"C'mon Sherlock, I'll show you around," Molly said. She was standing outside his door and held out a hand to help him out, which he ignored. He walked around the truck and leaned into the bed to grab his bag, but it wasn't there.

"Where is my bag?"

"I already took it in," Molly said.

"How long have I been asleep?"

Sherlock noted that the sun had gone down and the whole area was bathed in moonlight.

"About an hour. Bobby said to let you sleep. Looked like you needed it. Did you know you snore?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I do not."

Molly just grinned and shrugged. She turned around and started heading off into the house. Sherlock noticed that she had changed into a pair of lounge pants and a blue jumper (_why_ he was noticing these things...well, he was exactly sure). He followed her into the house. He intended to wipe his feet before entering until he realized that a man like Bobby wouldn't own a door mat. He felt slightly…bothered by the fact.

Suddenly Bobby was standing in front of Sherlock. Sherlock backed up slightly, uncomfortable with how close the man.

"Not one step further until I know for sure what you are," Bobby said, his voice low and gravelly. Sherlock saw Molly roll her eyes behind her uncle, then walk over and place a hand on his shoulder.

"Bobby-"

"You know the rules girly. I don't have many, but this one is set in damn stone."

Molly grinned slightly before shaking her head.

"Alright. Sherlock, you need to take a sip of holy water. Just to prove that you are human," Molly said. Sherlock's eyebrow went up as he watched Bobby pour clear liquid out of a flask into a shot glass. He held the glass out to Sherlock, who took it carefully.

"Are you sure this is just water?" he eyed the liquid in the water.

"Pretty damn sure, unless you are wantin' something stronger," Bobby said. Sherlock sighed heavily, then took the shot quickly. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but tap water with a strong hint of minerals wasn't one of them. Sherlock handed the glass back to Bobby, his lips screwed up in distaste.

"You sure he ain't a demon?" Bobby asked Molly, glancing at the look on Sherlock's face.

"Promise Uncle Bobby. He's just...Sherlock."

Bobby laughed slightly and then clapped a hand onto Sherlock's shoulder. Suddenly he looked far kinder, and wasn't regarding Sherlock in such a menacing way.

"Welcome to Singer Salvage. Make yourself at home. But don't touch the décor. Assume everything around here is loaded."

"Typical Bobby Singer welcoming committee. Don't worry Sherlock, he said the same thing to me when I showed up," Molly said lovingly.

"Hell, did more than that."

"And I have the scars to prove it," she said with a smile. Sherlock's eyebrows raised into his hairline.

"Your family has some…interesting customs," Sherlock said, unbuttoning and pulling off the much-hated flannel shirt.

"You can't imagine the Christmas dinners," Molly joked. Sherlock laughed slightly and draped the shirt over a chair in the study. Bobby watched the two for a moment, then shook his head and walked through to the back.

"I'm going to the basement for a bit. Don't break nothin'."

Molly and Sherlock watched Bobby go before Molly turned around and beckoned Sherlock.

"Would you like me to show you around Sherlock?"

Sherlock glanced over at the girl before shutting his eyes. He sighed, his mind racing. It had been most of the last couple of days. He was weary to the bone, and he was slightly agitated. But mostly, he was worried. Extremely worried about everyone and everything.

"I'm just tired Molly. Where will I be sleeping?"

Molly nodded, concern flooding her features. She picked up her bags, gesturing for Sherlock to do the same, and began to lead the way up the stairs.

"I'm sorry you can't have a room of your own," she said nervously. She opened the door to her own bedroom. Sherlock stepped in and was momentarily stunned. He had been in a teenage girls room before, but this was like a cross between a young woman and a bounty hunter. Sherlock could see a small stuffed cat on top of a hand gun on her dresser, and a rack of shot guns over the pink and purple bed. In the center of the room, at the foot of her bed, was a military fold away bed that looked extremely out of place. Molly glanced at Sherlock for a moment before taking the sheets that had been folded at the end of the bed and began to make it.

"I am to sleep in here?" he asked her slowly as she continued to make the bed. He noticed her face flush slightly.

"My room is the only one that Bobby doesn't use for storage. So it was either this or sleep amongst thousands of dusty old books…'course, I guess that would be a pretty ideal place for you to sleep," she tried to joke, fluffing a pillow before placing it at the head of the fold away bed.

"Well, sleep tight. I'm going to go talk to Bobby for a bit."

Sherlock nodded and watched her go. After she left the room he sat down on the bed and ran a hand through his dirty blonde curls. He grimanced when he pulled his hand away and saw some strands wrapped around his fingers. With a deep sigh he kicked off his shoes, laid back on the bed, and stared into the darkness. He thought about John, and what he might be doing at the very moment.

Would he be making a cuppa? Would he be helping Mrs. Hudson with something? Would he keep in touch with Greg?

His thoughts turned to Molly when he heard her laughter carry up to him. He smiled slightly. It was one of the few things he enjoyed about Molly. Even in times of great duress she could have a smile on her face. It was a great trait to have if you worked in a morgue…even more so if you were a hunter.

Sherlock jumped slightly, disturbed from his thoughts, when he saw the door open and shut quickly. He closed his eyes and listened as Molly slid under the covers of her bed and fell asleep almost instantly. Another one of the traits he had begun to notice about Molly; she could fall asleep anytime, anywhere, and could enter REM sleep almost instantly.

Sherlock waited a moment longer before getting up off of the bed. He glanced at the moon lit figure of Molly, her hair splayed across her pillow as she slept. Sherlock's lips cocked up in a slight smile before he pushed his way out of the bedroom. He walked down the dark hallway and down the steps. He cringed when one of the steps squeeked, then continued his way down. He stopped again when he saw that the light to the study was on.

"Well, you gonna come in or you just gonna stand on the stairs like an idgit?" came a gravelly voice. Sherlock's expression didn't change, but he did make his way into the dimly lit study. The first thing he noticed was all of the books. Books upon books upon books, stacked nearly ceiling high. Some looked to be hand written and very old, others were new and barely touched. Sherlock stared at the impressive collection.

"Instead of standing there gaping, why don't you go and get us some beers," Bobby said, not even looking up from the book he was analyzing. Sherlock stared at the man in mild contempt, but he was not in his elements. He was in Bobby's. Even Sherlock wasn't dumb enough to mess with the man. Sherlock crossed the hall into the dark kitchen and pulled two cold beers out of the fridge. He went back into the study and set one down in front of Bobby, who took grabbed it and twisted the cap off before taking a deep swig. Sherlock set his unopened bottle down before sitting on the sofa next to the window.

"Couldn't sleep?" Bobby asked.

"I don't sleep when I'm on a case," Sherlock said as he stared out into the yard. He could see the skeletal figures of dead cars on all sides and they reminded him of the craggy stones of Dartmoore. Thinking of that case led Sherlock's mind back to worrying about John.

"So is this a case then?" Bobby asked. Sherlock's eyebrow raised.

"Aren't they all?" Sherlock replied. He heard a small huff from the man, and realized that he was laughing.

"Well, you should still get some sleep. Hunters Rules number 3; sleep when you can get it."

"You aren't sleeping," Sherlock pointed out. Bobby laughed again.

"Well, you got me there. Some rules are made for breakin' I guess."

Bobby stood up and stretched, groaning when his back cracked. He picked up his beer and walked over to where Sherlock was sitting. Sherlock glanced up at the man.

"Do you know how to shoot?" Bobby asked. Sherlock turned away to stare out the window again.

"I am...adequate," was Sherlock's response.

"How about fighting?"

"Enough to get by."

"Are you fast?"

"By average standards? Yes."

Bobby sighed at the short, sharp answers before he sat down next to Sherlock. He waited until Sherlock turned and they stared each other down.

"Best be getting better than adequate. 'Cause that girl up there? I love her like she is me own. And I know that she is only doin' this for you. Now, I don't know what she sees in you, or why she is willing to risk her hide for some stupid damn venture that might very well get her killed. But I know that no matter what I say I ain't gonna be able to talk her out of it. Too damn stubborn."

"Takes after you then?"

Bobby smiled.

"Too damn much. But I'm warnin' you _Mr. Holmes_. She is riskin' herself for you, so you best be doin' the same in return. 'Cause she has a tendancy to think with her heart more than her head sometimes. One of the worst, and best, things about her."

"So what are you trying to tell me?"

"Keep her safe Sherlock. Or I'll kill you myself."

With that Bobby stood up and walked back over to his desk. Sherlock stared after him, somewhat shocked into silence. And somewhat impressed. Sherlock realized right away that this was one of those few people who could say they would kill Sherlock...and would mean it.

"May I inquire as to what you are reading?" Sherlock asked after they had been sitting in silence for almost half an hour.

"Translating a book for a hunter in Canada."

"About?"

"Okami," Bobby said. Sherlock's eyebrow raised.

"What is an Okami?"

Bobby looked up and smirked. For three hours the two men conversed, the elder teaching the younger all there was to know about hunting. Sherlock had read about quite a bit, and had heard some stories from Molly, but this was a professional. This was a man who had been face to face with the monsters of the world and had lived to tell about them.

He didn't even notice when he began to nod off. He only remembered Bobby's gruff chuckle before he was fast asleep.

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat up quickly, the book on his chest falling to the floor with a muffled thump. He sat up straight, unfamiliar with his surroundings. Suddenly the memories from the evening before caught up to him. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, trying to banish the sleep from his mind. He noticed that he was covered up with a thick, woven blanket that looked like it had seen better days. He pushed it off of his body and stood up. He brushed off his blue t-shirt with a slight grimace. He had never gone wearing the same clothes for so many days.<p>

He left the study and entered the kitchen only to realize that it was nearing midday by the position of the sunlight. Sherlock rubbed his face again, groaning slightly. He had also never slept in quite so late before. The last time he could remember sleeping in this late into the day was after a case that kept him up for almost 4-days. By the end of the 4-days he was taking micro naps and had started seeing things in the crime scene photos. Of course, this was before he had met John, who used to forced him to sleep.

As Sherlock's thoughts turned to John he felt that strange sensation in his stomach; that ball of worry that made him feel two pounds heavier than he should. Sherlock reached out to steady himself on the counter when he noticed a small note.

_Sherlock_

_There is a plate of food in the oven for you. Bobby went to go talk to an associate of his to see about procuring you a couple of fake ID's. I'll be out in the garage if you need me._

_Molly_

Sherlock set the note down and opened up the oven. He wrinkled his nose and shut it quickly. What he could really use was a good cuppa. A quick search of the cabinets turned up some interesting finds; a cutlery drawer with a false bottom that held all sorts of dried plants, a jar of what looked to be blood, and, most interesting of all, a row of phones all with different government agency. But no tea.

Sherlock stared at the phones in rapt fascination, appreciating the simplistic genius of them. After a few more minutes of analyzing Sherlock left the kitchen and made his way back up to Molly's room. He knocked before entering, out of habit more than anything, and made his way over to his bed. He sat down and slid his boots on, grimacing at the feel. What he wouldn't give to have his old Yves Saint Laurent's back. As he stood up he noticed out of the corner of his eye a box with his name on it, and a duffel bag next to it. He eyed the box for a moment longer before his curiosity got the best of him.

He opened the box and began pulling out clothing, but almost none of the clothes were his. They were variations of what he was wearing now; solid color T-shirts, boot cut jeans, some more flannel button ups, a couple of button up shirts that were nothing like his beloved silk shirts, and a professional looking suit that was far too…normal looking for his taste. Sherlock grimaced and threw the articles back into the box. This was Mycroft's doing.

Sherlock took off down the steps and out into the chilly South Dakota air. He rubbed his bare arms slightly, almost regretting not grabbing the flannel (but not entirely), and began to trudge through the field of cars. He could hear a radio playing somewhere out in the distance. Glancing back at the house one more time, Sherlock began to weave around the cars. He glanced around at the metal jungle as a small feeling of apprehension crept around him. This was unfamiliar territory.

Suddenly there was a break in the cars and he was standing in front of a garage. His eyebrows rose at the sight that greeted him.

Molly was bent over nearly in half as she adjusted something to the engine of a car. She was humming to the radio and bobbing her head slightly.

"Molly-" Sherlock, who had tried to yell over the radio, was cut off when Molly yelped and hit her head on the hood of the car. She rubbed her now sore head as she turned around.

"Jesus Sherlock. Scared the piss out of me."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow but didn't comment. He had begun to notice how she would say things that weren't entirely...Molly-like. Far to bold, if he were to put a name to it.

"I was wondering where the box in your room came from. The one with my name labeled on the front."

Molly shrugged.

"It was with the stuff I had sent here. Mind you most of my things are in storage back in Britain. It was nice of your brother to take care of all."

"So Mycroft sent it?"

Molly nodded.

"But they aren't my clothes," Sherlock insisted. Molly sighed.

"I know Sherlock, but your clothes are not suitable for what we are going to be doing. For one they make you stick out like a sore thumb, looking all posh and whatnot. Maybe you can get away with that in London, but here if someone sees you walking around in a five-hundred Euro suit, they are gonna talk. And that is something that we can't afford right now."

"And what is the second reason?" Sherlock said coldly. Molly rolled her eyes.

"Well, cotton is a hell-ova lot easier to clean blood out of than silk."

"Then where are my things?"

"In storage with mine. That's what Mycroft told me at least."

"Hm…what else has _Mycroft_ told you."

Molly leaned over the engine of the car again and began fiddling around. Sherlock watched her and was reminded of when he would play the violin to help organize his thoughts.

"He told me…that John isn't living at 221B anymore. He moved out," she said slowly, glancing at Sherlock as though to gauge his response.

Sherlock's eyes widened.

"Why would he do something like that?" Sherlock asked, genuinely confused about his friend's actions. Molly pushed herself away from the car and wiped her hands on a dirty rag.

"Isn't it obvious Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head. Molly sighed and walked over to one of the tables. She picked up her laptop and opened it up.

"Have you seen John's blog lately?"

Sherlock shook his head again, that worrying feeling creeping back into his gut. Molly hit a couple of buttons and then turned the laptop around to face Sherlock. The man leaned in close to read the couple sentences of text.

_He was my best friend. And I'll always believe in him._

Sherlock let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. Molly gave him a sad look as she closed the laptop. Sherlock looked away from her as he felt a sudden, unfamiliar rush of emotions. Molly gave him a few moments to compose himself, and if she noticed the slight watery welling in his eyes she didn't comment. She just turned back to the car and fiddled with the engine some more.

"He misses you Sherlock."

"Obviously," was Sherlock's curt response. Molly sighed and reached into the engine to retrieve something.

"May I ask what you are doing exactly?" Sherlock tried to change the subject. Molly stood back and glanced over at him, but didn't push the previous matter. She, instead, shut the hood of the car and stepped back.

"Getting our transport travel ready. Isn't she a beaut? Uncle Bobby is letting us borrow her."

Sherlock stared at the car. It was obviously a classic, if the shape was any evidence. It was a two-door, black, with two red strips going across the roof and down the hood.

"What is it?"

"It's…a car, Sherlock," Molly laughed softly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I mean what kind of car is it? You obviously know more about cars than I do."

"Wow I know more of something than the famous Sherlock Holmes? I should get a metal."

Sherlock glared at the woman as she laughed. She noticed the look on his face and sobered up, although a smile still lingered in her expression.

"Um, it is my Uncle's '71 Chevelle. Take a look."

Sherlock followed Molly over as she pointed out different things about the car.

"Leather interior…CD player, installed by _moi_…and a whole arsenal in the trunk."

Molly lifted the trunk top. The first thing Sherlock noticed was the devil's trap symbol on the underside of the hood. But his attention was soon begotten by the plethora of weapons that Molly revealed. There was a large canteen of what was obviously Holy Water, if the cross on the front were any evidence, a couple of collapsible batons, knives and daggers, a handful of stakes, an _axe_, and guns. Lots and lots of guns. Sawed off shot guns, pistols, rifles. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Molly.

"Isn't this a bit much?"

Molly shrugged.

"Hunter's Rule number 4; be prepared for anything, especially if you have to kill it."

She shut the trunk and turned to face Sherlock, her hands on her hips.

"Speaking of…did you eat the food I left you?"

Sherlock didn't say a word. Molly's neutral gaze turned into a glare.

"Sherlock Holmes. Hunter's Rule number 2; Eat when you can as often as you can. It's same as sleep; you never know if you might have to go without for a couple of days."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but Molly didn't budge. Sherlock tried staring her down, but this wasn't old, mousy Molly. This Molly was a confident, pain-in-Sherlock's-butt Molly. Finally he turned and began the trek back to the house.

"Molly," he called as she turned back to the car. She span around and faced him.

"What's rule number one?"

Molly smirked.

"Don't get killed."

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><p>Sherlock set down his fork, grimacing at the feeling in his stomach. He hated eating on a case; it slowed him down. But Molly was right. This wasn't like pursuing a serial killer. This was something far more deadly, and he would have to be a little more conscious of himself now. He owed it to the people he had left back home.<p>

The front door opened and Bobby and Molly walked in. Sherlock stood up and placed his plate in the sink as the duo entered the kitchen. When Sherlock turned back around Molly was holding out a couple of cards to him.

He studied the cards. The first two were simple enough; a drivers license and state ID with his alias Shea McTavish. He couldn't help wondering where Molly had gotten the photo of him smiling. The other ones were far more surprising; an FBI badge, a C.D.C badge, and a health department badge. Sherlock shook his head as he shuffled through them, an amused smile gracing his features.

"Only use those on a cautionary basis. And Molly has my official's cards. So make sure, if someone needs to speak to a superior, you give them the right damn card."

Bobby turned around and left the kitchen to go back into the study. Molly looked after him fondly, then motioned to Sherlock.

"Come with me."

Sherlock followed her up the stairs and into her bedroom. She pulled out two boxes and set them on her bed.

"So where should we start? I feel that if we-" Sherlock was cut off.

"Bobby got a call from an associate in Wisconsin. A minor haunting. I figured it would be a good place to start."

"Start?"

"Teaching you how to hunt. I mean, I'm kind of rusty myself. So a standard salt-and-burn will be a good pick-me-up."

"What about Moriarty?"

"Sherlock, we can't just go in willy-nilly and shoot up the place. It is going to take strategy. For one we don't even know where the bastard is. We'll take our time, and we'll train in the meantime. Just trust me."

Sherlock knew she was right, not that he had to like it. He finally turned and opened up his box again. He sighed down at the clothes in the box. He didn't notice Molly grin as she began to fill a duffel with her own clothes.

"I was also thinking, if the haunting isn't too bad, maybe we could go to Michigan to visit Dean."

Sherlock just grunted slightly as he held up another shirt. He sighed heavily.

"So is that okay? Wisconsin then Michingan? Haunting then Dean?"

Sherlock slammed the shirt down.

"Yes yes that is fine!"

The old Molly would have jumped and ran off. This Molly just started to giggle slightly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and folded the shirt in his lap. He heard Molly clear her throat but he chose to ignore her.

"Sherlock?"

"Molly?" he growled slightly.

"Did you go through all of the clothes?" she asked. Sherlock turned to glare at her.

"Yes," he scoffed, turning his back to her.

"Obviously not," she said softly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and glanced over at the woman from the corner of his eye before he started pulling clothes out of the box and setting them on the bed next to him.

He stopped when he came to it. He pulled it out of the box and fingered the fabric before smiling.

He stood up and slid his arms through the sleeves of his beloved Belstaff coat. The clothing that he had been wearing for the past few days had felt so foreign on his skin. But this felt…familiar.

"Mycroft didn't want you to have it. Thought people might recognize it. I told him that as long as you don't wear the deerstalker no one will make the connection," Molly said. Sherlock turned to face Molly.

"Thank you Molly."

"Of course Sherlock. I know how much you like that co-"

"No Molly," Sherlock interrupted. His eyebrows furrowed as he tried to find the right words.

"I mean, thank you. For everything. For all of this."

Molly stared at Sherlock, then her face broke out in a warm smile. A smile that Sherlock had found himself enjoying more and more.

"Of course Sherlock. Now, finish packing, take a shower, get some rest. We'll be leaving early in the morning."


	4. Sherlock's First Hunt Part 1

**I wish to apologize for how long you all have to wait between updates. I am currently in school, which takes up majority of my time. I hate that I have to choose between writing this and writing essays...tis a very hard choice. **

**Anyway, this is the first in a TWO-PART story. This one is a wee bit shorter, just as a sort of teaser. But don't worry, I will be updating soon! I've been very excited to write this chapter, and, honestly, it has kind of taken on a life of its own.**

**Remember, reviews help me to choose writing this story over doing my school essays...**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock and Supernatural do not belong to me!**

* * *

><p>Sherlock straightened his <em>cheap <em>suit (that, honestly, didn't fit him nearly as well as his perfectly tailored suits all boxed up back in London) as he pulled his FBI badge out of the inner pocket. Molly, who was disguised similarly except for the royal purple dress shirt and lack of tie, smirked up at him as she pulled out her own. Then she turned to the woman in front of them, her face all business.

"I'm Agent Stephanie Gatiss. This is my partner Markus Moffat. We're just here to ask you a couple of questions about the Barton Manor."

The elderly woman invited them into her house. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Molly before following her into the cozy home. He set about analyzing and deducing what he could from the house alone. Which was quite a bit.

A hoarder, by the trash heaped in piles…and the smell.

A cat-lover, if the number of litter boxes filled with far too much feces were any evidence.

No family. Probably all dead.

Never married, but she was a mother.

Sherlock's thoughts were cut short when the woman brought them into the living room. She invited them both to sit, which Molly did with a tight smile on her face. She did her best to avoid sitting on the containers of half empty food. Sherlock remained standing. The elderly lady, who introduced herself as Hazel, took a seat in a well-worn rocking chair.

"What would you like to know about the manor?" the woman asked slowly, her voice as creaky as her rocking chair.

"What happened to you in Barton Manor when you were a girl?" Sherlock asked instantly. Molly shot a sharp look at Sherlock, one that said 'I thought I told you in the car to let me do the talking because you can be an insensitive dick sometimes.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shrugged at her, feeling like a petulant child. Molly rolled her eyes right back without missing a beat, then turned back to the woman.

"I'm sorry about that. What my partner meant was; we know that you used to live in the Barton Manor. And we know that something happened to you there. We just wanted to know exactly what happened."

The woman stared at them, her watery, cataract-clouded eyes narrowing.

"Why would two FBI agents want to know what happened at the manor? I've given my statement. More than once. How do I know you two won't just call me a loony and lock me up? I refuse to go, I tell you! I'm not a crazy!"

Hazel pushed herself out of her chair with a strength that even surprised Sherlock. Molly jumped up and grasped the older woman's shoulders.

"Hazel, calm down! You don't want to hurt yourself!"

She eased the old woman back into her rocking chair. Sherlock was impressed at how quickly she had reacted. And, maybe, just a little jealous that he hadn't caught on first. Molly sat back down on the sofa and placed her hand on Hazel's knee.

"We believe you Hazel. We don't think you are crazy."

Speak for yourself, thought Sherlock.

Hazel stared at Molly, and then turned her gaze to Sherlock before it turned into a steely glare.

"I'll tell you, but not him," she pointed a bony finger at Sherlock.

"Why?" Sherlock asked in an offended tone.

"You smell of a non-believer. You reek of it," she scoffed. Molly turned slightly to Sherlock.

"Markus, why don't you go wait outside. I'll only be a moment."

Sherlock stared down his nose at Molly, who raised her eyebrows and motioned towards the door with her head. Sherlock sneered and turned sharply (although, the effect wasn't quite as intimidating without the long coat) before walking out to stand on the porch. He tapped his leg in boredom. He wished Molly had allowed him to bring the gun that she had allocated him, but she told him that it probably wouldn't be best to interview an old woman whilst armed.

He thought otherwise, but Molly just hid the guns from him. He knew where they were, of course, but he had decided to humor her for a while.

Sherlock had been standing out on the porch receiving strange looks from the neighbors for almost twenty minutes when Molly finally exited the house. The first thing he noticed was how pale she looked. She didn't say anything, or even acknowledge Sherlock, as she left the house. She stepped down the stairs quickly and got into the driver's side of the car and then waited.

Sherlock stared at her a moment before looking back at the old woman's house. He nearly jumped when he saw Hazel glaring at him from behind a ratty curtain. Sherlock turned quickly and followed Molly out to the car. Without a word she started the engine of the old Chevelle, and they pulled away from the house.

"What did you learn from Hazel?" Sherlock asked as he stared out the window. He spared a glance at Molly and did a double take; there were tears welling in her eyes. As if she had read his mind, or noticed the startled look on his face, she quickly dabbed at her eyes. Then she hit the steering wheel.

"This was supposed to be an easy case! And _easy_ _freaking case_!" she hollered. She hit the steering wheel again for good measure. Sherlock could tell she was obviously upset at what the old hag had told her, but he wasn't sure why.

"Tell me what she said," he said gently, trying to coax the answer out of her. If that didn't work he could try flirting with her, but he was fairly certain that wouldn't work. This wasn't the old Molly Sherlock used to know.

Molly rubbed her face, and then began biting her nail. She was silent for the entire drive back to the hotel. She had just parked the car and Sherlock was about to get out when she began to speak.

"Hazel was adopted by the owner of the house, Mr. Barton, when she was just a child."

Sherlock shut the door and directed his full attention to Molly.

"Apparently, a year before Mr. Barton's wife had died. She had been…she was pregnant. And one night, near when she was about to give birth, she fell down the stairs of the basement. But, according to Hazel, Mr. Barton swore his wife never even went near the basement. Said it frightened her. So after she died Mr. Barton decided to adopt a daughter, to relieve his suffering."

"Hazel," Sherlock stated. Molly nodded.

"Hazel said that when she moved in is when the really weird stuff started happened. Stuff being moved. Stuff going missing. But the weirdest thing was…was that there was this…this room that Mr. Barton always kept locked. He wouldn't allow anyone inside; not even his beloved Hazel. He told her that the room had belonged to his first daughter, who had died as a child. He wanted to keep it preserved, as a memoir."

Sherlock nodded.

"So, are we assuming that the ghost is the young girl then?"

Suddenly Molly looked up at Sherlock, and he saw a haunted look in her eyes.

"Yes…but it is so much worse than that."

Sherlock was momentarily startled. Molly looked shaken to the bone.

"How…how much worse?"

"According to Hazel when she was 19 she became pregnant with her son, Anthony. She was on holiday with her adoptive father when she gave birth. She came home with her son. Then, not even three days after she brought the infant home, she woke up and…"

"And?"

Molly bit her lip before sighing and opened her mouth.

"And…she found that every bone in the infant's body had been broken."

Sherlock's eyes widened. Even he, a self-proclaimed sociopath who didn't feel as others felt, knew that this was one of the worst and most terrible actions performed in this world. The taking of an infant's life was taking away something innocent and untainted by the world. And that was something that even Sherlock couldn't help but feel disgusted by.

"Mr. Barton was accused of doing it and was sent to prison. He died a short while later," Molly continued. Sherlock nodded to her to continue, his brain putting together the pieces.

"Hazel said that just as she was leaving the manor for the last time, she saw a girl in the upstairs window. She told me that the girl was just…staring at her. And then she was just gone."

"But why would the girl kill the infant and not-OH!" Sherlock gasped as the pieces fit into the complex puzzle in his mind. Molly nodded.

"It takes a lot to make a child into a malevolent spirit. Children are so innocent that to do that…to make a child into something so evil…"

Molly couldn't continue.

"The daughter," Sherlock filled in. "It was the daughter. Mr. Barton got the girl pregnant, didn't he? And he made her get rid of the child."

"I don't think he did."

"What do you mean?"

"A man like that? He wouldn't want his wife to find out what he had done to their daughter. Making her get rid of the child wouldn't have been enough."

"He took her life," Sherlock stated. Molly nodded again, and then sighed.

"I really hate cases like this. They make me realize how screwed up humans are."

Sherlock nodded in agreement. Then he opened his door and walked around to the other side to open Molly's door. She smiled tiredly at him in thanks as she got out. They went into the hotel. Sherlock took care of getting their room, using his best possible American accent that he could muster (which, according to Molly, sounded like a cross between a Southerner and a Scott). The man didn't even give him a second look; just thrust the keys in Sherlock's direction. His attention was to intent on the pre-recorded football game behind him.

Sherlock escorted Molly to their shared room. They looked around, eyebrows cocked in unison.

"Well, I've slept in worse," Molly said tiredly. Not only had she done most of the investigating, she had also done majority of the driving because Sherlock wasn't used to the American style of driving. Sherlock allowed her first dibs on the shower. As she showered Sherlock sat down on his bed. It was the one farthest from the door, something that Molly had insisted on. Apparently when she used to hunt with Sam and Dean they always made her take the bed farthest from the door for 'safety.'

It wasn't long before Molly walked out into the room in just a towel. Sherlock stared at her as she tried to squeeze the water out of her hair while she made her way to her duffel. When she saw Sherlock looking she blushed and tried to pull the towel tighter.

"Sorry, forgot to grab my clothes. But…umm, showers free."

Sherlock nodded and quickly made his way into the bathroom. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He…had noticed something about Molly. Something that he had only noticed about one other person before.

Sherlock filled up the sink with cool water and splashed a bit on his face. He stared at himself in the mirror again, staring at the water dripping from the tip of his nose. He studied his face, taking the same time and care that he did when analyzing anything or anyone else. But he couldn't find anything seemingly _wrong_ with him.

He finally pushed himself away from the sink and started the shower. He took his time undressing before he stepped under the steady stream. He sighed and rubbed his sore back, achy from the extremely long time in the classic car.

He stayed in the shower for what felt like a fairly long time before he finally stepped out and dried himself off. He wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out into the chilly air.

"Molly would you hand me my duffel?" Sherlock asked. Molly, who had been sitting on her bed whilst she typed on her laptop, looked up before her eyes widened.

"What?" Sherlock asked, although he was well aware why she was acting as such. She just continued to stare, before shaking her head to clear away the thoughts that were invading her head. She pushed herself off of the bed and walked over to the table next to the door where they had set their bags. She lifted Sherlock's up and tossed it to him.

Sherlock retired back into the bathroom and dressed in a comfortable pair of jeans and a white t-shirt before pulling his jacket on over top as a pseudo-house coat. He re-entered the main room just in time to see Molly groan and throw herself back onto the pillows.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked.

"Remember when I said this was supposed to be _easy_?" she asked. Sherlock cocked a slight smile.

"What is the problem?"

Molly groaned and pushed herself back up. She opened her laptop and clicked a few buttons.

"I've hacked…I mean, searched the entire freaking town's records. There is no record of where Mr. Barton's first daughter was buried. There are records to where his wife is buried, and where Hazel's son was buried. But no daughter."

Sherlock got up and moved over beside Molly. She shuffled over to make some room and together they scanned over the articles that Molly had found about the girl's death.

"According to this her name was Agatha," Sherlock pointed at the screen.

"Does it say how she died?" Molly asked. Sherlock, who was a much faster reader than Molly, scanned over the article before nodding.

"It says that she died in her bed. The physician called in couldn't figure out what killed her."

"So it was more than likely a poison," Molly said. Sherlock nodded. He was beginning to get that thrill in his body that he used to get on a case. It was a bit…odd, however, to be doing what he used to do with John…with Molly instead. Sherlock was so busy pondering he nearly missed what Molly said.

"I'm sorry Molly, I was reading. What did you say?"

"I asked what could have poisoned her?"

Sherlock shrugged and went into 'analytical' mode.

"It could be any number of poisons. But for the time, and for the fact that a trained physician, even of that time, couldn't discover the source…hmmm. I would need to perform an experiment-"

"Sherlock, the girl is long dead. We're more worried about finding her body, remember?"

Sherlock stopped his thought process. Of course, he realized, how could he mistake what they were doing with what he used to do with John. Molly didn't seem to notice as he got quiet. She was looking back down at the computer when her eyes widened.

"I say it again; _supposed_ to be easy."

"What did you find?"

"Apparently, after the girl's death the father had her cremated. Then he apparently scattered her ashes over the garden in the backyard where she used to love playing. No funeral, and no one was allowed to see the body, including his wife. He probably just wanted to get rid of the evidence."

"But then, if her body was burned-" Sherlock began.

"Then how is her spirit still haunting the place?" Molly finished. They both sat in silence pondering when Sherlock gasped.

"You said that Mr. Barton never allowed Hazel into Agatha's old room, correct?"

Molly nodded slowly, then her eyes widened.

"You are a genius Sherlock!" Molly yelled. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"That fact has already been established numerous times," he muttered. Molly rolled her eyes as she shut the laptop.

"We should probably get some sleep. Tomorrow night we'll head up to the mansion and take a look around."

"Alright," Sherlock agreed. Molly pulled the covers over her body and fell into a deep, nearly instant sleep. Sherlock, on the other hand, sat on top of the covers and leaned against the head board. For a while he just sat there and stared into the air, but soon he found his eyes drifting over to glance at Molly. He caught himself and whipped his eyes back to stare at the small stain on the wall across the room. But soon his mind began to drift and, almost of their own accord, his eyes began to coast over to Molly. She shifted in her sleep and mumbled something about 'rhubarb.' Sherlock found himself smiling before he finally crawled under the covers and fell into a light slumber.

* * *

><p>Sherlock prodded at the meal in front of him, but he wasn't hungry. He was…I guess the correct word be <em>nervous<em>. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was nervous. Not for the fact that they were going on a hunt…well, that was part of it. But it was more of the fact that Sherlock didn't know what to expect. He doubted…something he hated even more than cheap suits and shifters with Moriarty's face.

"Sherlock, eat your food," Molly said around a mouthful of hash browns. Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"I don't know about your definition of food, but _this_ barely passes as edible," he said, prodding at the eggs again. Molly just shrugged and took a sip of her coffee.

"Fair enough. But I pretty much grew up on diner food and TV dinners. Fine dining isn't really in my vocabulary," she joked. But Sherlock could tell. Even behind the easy smile she was just as nervous, if not more so, than he was. For not only was she hunting for the first time in quite a while, but she was also taking an _amateur_ along.

Sherlock could feel her eyes on him, so he took a tentative bite of the eggs, swallowing quickly before setting his fork down.

"Too salty."

Molly rolled her eyes before setting some money on the table.

"C'mon, picky, lets head back to the motel room."

"What? Why are we going back to the motel? I thought we were going up to the mansion?" Sherlock asked as they walked out of the diner.

"We can't go up there in the day, Sherlock. C'mon, use your head," she teased, tapping the side of her temple as she grinned at Sherlock. Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and grinned when she careened chest first into another young man.

"Oh my gosh, I am _so_ sorry," the young man said, helping Molly up off of the ground. Sherlock just leaned against the lamp post and crossed his arms, a smirk playing on his face at Molly's embarrassment.

Serves her right for questioning my thinking abilities, Sherlock thought to himself.

Molly dusted herself off and shot a glare at Sherlock, who just smirked back. The young man was looking at Molly nervously.

"I'm sorry, I should have watched where I was going," he said quickly. He reached out with a hesitant hand and picked a stray bit of paper out of Molly's hair.

"No, it's quite alright. It was my fault entirely. My…friend here should have given me a warning," Molly assured him, giving him a smile. The man raised an eyebrow.

"Are you English? I mean, are you from England?"

Molly's eyes widened a fraction. She realized that she had forgotten to use her American accent. Sherlock rolled his eyes then took this moment to step forward. He placed a protective arm around Molly's shoulders and held out his hand.

"Yes, we are. Hi, I'm Shea. And this is my girlfriend Molly. We're tourists."

"Girlfriend. But I thought-"

Suddenly another young man came run forward. He was a bit taller and far more gawky looking than the first man. He placed his arm on the first man's shoulder as he tried to catch his breath.

"Ed, man, what happened?" he asked after he had finally stopped wheezing. Sherlock glanced between the two males. Good friends, obviously.

"Nothing. Just had a little run in with Molly here. This is her boyfriend Shea. They are from England."

The second man turned to face Molly, a big, toothy smile breaking out on his face.

"Oh cool! I've always wanted to go to England. Have you ever met the Queen?"

Molly raised an eyebrow and glanced up at Sherlock, who shrugged.

"Um, no. No I haven't. Why does everyone think that if you are from England you know the Queen."

"I don't know…I've met the Queen a couple of times myself," Sherlock muttered under his breath. Molly smirked. The two men looked on the couple in equal amounts of trepidation and confusion. The first man stuck out his hand to break the strange silence.

"Well, I'm Ed…Ed Zeddmore. And this is my friend Harry Spangler."


	5. Sherlocks First Hunt Part 2

"What was that all about?" Molly asked Sherlock when they entered the hotel room. Sherlock stared up at the ceiling in exasperation.

"What was _what_ all about?"

"_That_! That out there. 'This is my girlfriend, Molly'," Molly did a poor imitation of Sherlock. He rolled his eyes and let out a heavy, exasperated sigh.

"You are too easily distracted Molly. We have work to do, remember?" Sherlock said as he pulled his coat off and threw it across his bed. He had just turned to go use the bathroom when he caught the look on Molly's face.

"What?" he asked, staring her down. He didn't like the grin that was spreading across her pale face.

"Were you…Sherlock Holmes, were you _jealous_?"

Sherlock's eyes widened.

"Molly Hooper," he snapped, with as much disdain in his voice that he could muster (which was quite a bit).

"I do _not_ get jealous. I get annoyed. There is a distinct difference. You should know this; you _have_ worked with me in the past."

"Yeah, but when I worked with you, you wouldn't pay me the slightest bit of attention. But now…well, now I'm like your replacement-John."

Molly only realized the implication of her words after she had said it. She watched Sherlock's face get ashy; he didn't like mentions of John, his one, and only, true friend.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. Sometimes I have diarrhea of the mouth-"

"_No one_ could replace John," Sherlock hissed, cutting off Molly. He leaned against the door frame and breathed deeply through his nose.

"Sherlock, I am sorry," Molly said again. Sherlock took another deep breath, then just as quickly pushed himself away from the doorframe. His face had taken on a placid expression, but Molly could tell he wasn't happy. Not at all.

"It is no bother," he waved away her apology and busied himself with flipping through one of the books on the table. Molly sat down on her bed and watched Sherlock. Then with a sigh she walked over to the door.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked her.

"Out for a bit. Just…need a drink. We leave when the sun goes down," she pulled her gun out of her duffel on the table and stuck it in her waistband.

"Don't leave, and don't let anyone in," she said, shutting the door on Sherlock's protests. Sherlock stared after her, wondering what he had done to offend her, before sitting down and going through the book that had caught his interest.

* * *

><p>Molly sat on the hood of her car and stared out over the town lights. She pulled her jacket closer and took a sip of a soda she had bought at a local gas station. She had pulled her knees up to her chest as she cradled her cellphone in one hand. She kept glancing at it, as though her own will would cause it to ring.<p>

Which, when it did ring, nearly scared her out of her wits. Molly squeaked and very nearly dropped the phone before she fumbled around with it.

"Hello?"

"_Molly_?" came a tired, male voice. Molly smiled softly.

"Hello John."

* * *

><p>Sherlock glared out of the grimy motel window, his mouth downturned in disapproval. The sun was fully set and Molly was nowhere to be seen. He began to get that worried feeling in the pit of his stomach. He pulled out his phone and checked it, but there were no missed calls. He flipped the phone open and, in a moment of impulse, almost dialed a number nearly as familiar to him as his own name.<p>

Suddenly the door opened, making Sherlock jump as he quickly put the phone away. He turned to see Molly walk in holding a bag of greasy fast food. When she noticed the guilty look on his face she raised an eyebrow.

"Where were you?" he asked quickly, walking over to take the bag from her. He pulled a greasy burger out and grimaced before setting it on the table.

"Like I said, I went out for a drink."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He could tell she hadn't been drinking because there was no smell on her breath and there was still the strong alertness in her eyes. She was obviously lying to him, but he chose not to say anything. For now.

Molly began digging through her bag and pulled out a sawed off and a small ammo box full of rock-salt filled shells. Sherlock watched her gather her gear before turning to gather up his own weapons.

"Molly," he said softly. Molly stopped what she was doing and turned.

"Hm?"

"I apologize…for snapping at you earlier."

Molly raised an eyebrow, then shrugged.

"Don't worry about it."

Sherlock turned to glance at her and noticed the soft smile gracing her features. Sherlock smirked and finished gathering up his things. Together they left the motel room and left for the manor.

* * *

><p>"Keep watch Molly. I'll unlock the door," Sherlock said. He felt the rush of adrenaline he always got when he was knee-deep in a case. It was definitely the thrill of the chase that he enjoyed more than the capture.<p>

Molly watched as Sherlock bent down and pulled a lock-picking kit from the pocket of his coat. He laid out the kit and began selecting small tools from the snug little holders. Molly's impatience began to grow. She set a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Stand back."

Sherlock barely had time to stand up before Molly had whipped a leg out. The door flew open from the force of her kick, slamming on the opposite wall. Sherlock stared at the woman.

"What?" she asked as she hefted her knapsack higher on her shoulder. She had the small bag packed full of salt, a small tank of gas, and extra shells.

"At least my way would not have alerted the whole bloody town," Sherlock hissed. Molly shrugged again and entered the mansion. Sherlock rolled his eyes and followed after her quickly.

They stepped lightly through the foyer of the mansion. It was gigantic, at least by Molly's standards. Sherlock had been to Buckingham Palace (more than once), so he was less than impressed.

"Bobby told me that this house was built during the early '20s," Molly said. Sherlock nodded. He could see the attempts at modernization mixed with old Victorian styles that gave the mansion a strange appeal.

"How many rooms are there?" Sherlock whispered to Molly. He kept getting a strange, fluttery sensation in his chest. He felt like…like they shouldn't be in the mansion.

"A lot. There are three floors, a basement, and an attic."

"And where is the girl's room?"

"Top floor. But I'm not sure where."

During their whispered conversation they had made their way across the foyer and were now standing in front of the staircase that led to the second floor. Molly placed her hand on the hand carved wooden banister and was about to make her way up the stairs when she felt Sherlock grasp her wrist.

"Sherlock, wh-" she was cut off when Sherlock put a finger to his lips.

"Shh…do you hear that?" he asked. Molly stopped moving, stopped breathing, and listened. Then her eyes widened. She could hear voices, three male and one female, coming from the parlor in the other room. She locked eyes with Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow. Together they made their way over to the doorway, pressing her back against the wall. Sherlock did the same on the other side. Molly peeked around the doorway, then her eyes widened in surprise.

"What-the-hell," she whispered. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her, then peered around the door himself. He watched four silhouettes stood in the light of two laptops. He could hear them talking in hushed tones, and he noted the circle of salt around the table they were set up on. He leaned back against the wall and glanced pointedly at Sherlock.

"Should we make ourselves known?" she mouthed. Sherlock grinned. Sometimes he wondered if Molly was as twisted as he.

Together they turned around, guns held out in front of them.

"Oi! What the hell is going on here then?" Molly yelled, cocking the sawed off shotgun and pointing it at the two men in front of her. They raised their hands and turned around quickly. Molly's eyes widened and for the second time in only a few minutes she was shocked and annoyed.

"Molly?" Ed asked, surprise evident in his voice. Molly stared at Ed Zeddmore and Harry Spangler.

"Ed? Harry? What-the-hell," she said again.

The group and the duo faced each other down. Ed finally stepped forward and broke the silence.

"Um, what…what are you two doing here?"

"We should be asking the same of you," Sherlock spoke up. Molly nodded, agreeing with Sherlock for once. Harry spoke up this time, stepping up beside his friend.

"Well, uh, we're here to hunt a ghost. We're the-"

"_Ghostfacers_!" Harry and Ed said at the same time. Molly glanced up at Sherlock, who shrugged slightly.

"Ghostfacers? You know, _Ghost! Ghostfacers! We face the ghosts when others will not_," Ed sang quietly. Molly shook her head slowly. Harry groaned.

"I told you that our series wasn't reaching the UK," he said to Ed. Ed shrugged and they began a silent argument. Suddenly the only female of the group, a pretty Asian woman, stepped forward.

"Okay you two, enough is enough. Break it up," she said, stepping between the two. She held out a hand to Molly. Molly took the woman's soft hand in her own.

"Hi, I'm Maggie Zeddmore. I'm Eddy's sister-"

"Adopted sister," Ed butted in. Maggie rolled her eyes and pointed at the heavyset man behind her.

"And that's Spruce. He's our camera man."

The man, Spruce, waved from behind his camera. Molly suddenly realized that they were being filmed.

"Sorry, but what is this all for again?" she asked. Ed and Harry stopped their quiet argument to look over at Molly.

"It is for our web series, Ghostfacers. We find ghosts or other creatures, and then we destroy them."

"So you are hunters?" Sherlock asked. Harry shook his head.

"No, we're better. We are like hunters…only with cameras."

Ed glanced over at Harry, eyebrows raised in alarm. Then Maggie spoke up.

"What are you two doing here? Are you, you know, hunters? Like, real hunters?"

"Nah, they can't be. She is too pretty, and he doesn't look like a total douche-nozzle," Ed said. Molly snorted and glanced up at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes. Molly covered her mouth until she could get ahold of herself.

"Actually, we are hunters," she said. She held up her shot gun as indication. Sherlock merely turned up the collar of his jacket and began exploring the room. He had already gleaned enough information by observing the group to conclude that they were of little to no threat to him and his companion. Molly watched him out of the corner of her eye until Maggie caught her attention.

"So, if you are hunters, you wouldn't happen to know the Winchesters?"

"Oh man, those annoying douche bags are the worst!" Harry said. Molly heard Sherlock stifle a laugh from his position next to the window. Molly stared down Harry.

"Those annoying douche bags happen to be close cousins of mine. Practically brothers."

Harry paled while Maggie and Ed stifled laughter of their own. Spruce, on the other hand, was watching Sherlock as he walked around the room, placing his hands on things and analyzing with his sharp eyes. He turned when he noticed Spruce's eyes on him (_and_ his camera).

"What sort of name is _Spruce_?" Sherlock asked, his eyes continued to scan the room.

"It's Kenny, erm, Kenneth Spruce. Everyone just calls me Spruce."

"Alright, _Spruce_. May I ask _why_ you are staring at me?" Sherlock stopped and stared down Spruce. No one else noticed the tense atmosphere between the two except Molly, who watched the two men out of the corner of her eyes.

"I feel like I've seen you before."

Molly froze, panic rising. She suddenly wished they had decided to disguise their accents…or that they had just chosen a different hunt. She walked over and stood in front of Sherlock.

"Why don't you all tell us what you have?" she said, glaring pointedly at Spruce. She reached out and pushed the camera down that he had raised up to her face.

"Wait…you want our help?" Ed asked. Molly shrugged. He turned and smiled over at his friend.

"See, not total douche nozzles."

Molly stepped back beside Sherlock.

"Are we really going to let them help us?" Sherlock whispered while the Ghostfacers started pulling up files on their computer.

"What choice do we have. I remember Dean mentioning these guys to me; they are like a bad itch. You just can't get rid of them."

"Well…we _could_ use them to distract the spirit whilst we hunt down the body. We still don't know exactly where it is."

Molly nodded as he watched the group. Suddenly Harry sat up and waved them over. Molly shot an apprehensive look at Sherlock before striding forward.

"So this is what we've got so far. We believe the spirit is the eldest daughter of Antony Barton. She died when she was just a child under mysterious circumstances. Thus far the only deaths have been of Barton's pregnant wife and his adoptive daughter's son," Harry intoned as he read from his laptop.

"Well, and Mr. Barton. But he died in jail," Maggie said from her seat nearby.

"That isn't important _Maggie_," Ed snapped.

"That's it then?" Molly asked.

"Uh, yeah," Harry said.

"We've got camera stationed around the house, but we still haven't seen anything. I think this investigation might be a bust."

"Do you have a camera set up in the daughter's room?" asked Sherlock. Harry and Ed glanced at each other.

"I would take that as a no?"

"Well, we couldn't get the door unlocked," Ed said sheepishly.

"Yeah, we tried picking it, kicking it down…none of it worked. But we haven't seen the ghost, so I don't think it really matters."

Molly rubbed her forehead in annoyance.

"Then you obviously haven't been paying attention," Sherlock intoned, saying what Molly had been thinking. They were beginning to realize what Dean had meant about the Ghostfacers. They were more interested in the chase than the conclusion. They weren't _real_ hunters.

"What do you mean?" Maggie asked.

"There is a crucial clue in all of this; the wife was killed when she was pregnant. The son was killed, but not the ward."

Suddenly four pairs of eyes widened, and Maggie paled considerably.

"I don't think we are offering her what she wants," Molly said.

"What does she want?"

"A baby," Maggie said softly. Molly and Sherlock nodded.

"Well, that is going to be impossible, seeing as none of us have babies," Spruce stepped in as he placed the camera on the table to face all of them. He didn't notice Sherlock step around and turn the camera away. When he stepped back he noticed something that made him stop short.

"Actually, we may," he said. Molly turned around quickly, a questioning look in her eyes. Sherlock inclined his head towards Maggie. Molly turned and noticed how pale the girl had gotten.

"Maggie, are you…" Molly didn't continue when she saw the fearful look on the girls face, or when her hand raised up to cup a slightly rounded belly.

"What? Maggie? No way, how would…" Ed turned to look at his sister, then over at his friend, who had gone ghost white.

"But…but I thought you two broke up," Ed asked breathlessly.

"We did!" Maggie snapped. "We just…hooked up for a bit. After everything that happened to Ambyr."

She turned to Harry.

"I _was_ going to tell you, eventually."

Harry didn't say anything, just stared down at Maggie. Sherlock took this moment to step in.

"Whilst this is all very…alarming, the fact of the matter is we still have a killer ghost in this house, and now we have even more reason to be rid of it."

"I, for one, think Maggie should leave. To keep herself, and her baby, safe," Molly said. Harry nodded enthusiastically, but Maggie shook her head.

"No, I don't want to leave."

"But you are in greater danger than the rest of us," Molly said, getting down on one knee to bring herself to Maggie's seated level. Sherlock watched as the compassionate Molly, the Molly he had gone to when he needed help the most, came out.

"Maggie, the fact of the matter is that this ghost is murdering infants. And, of all of us, you have the most to lose."

"What I want to know it; why didn't the ghost attack her sooner? We've been in the house for a couple of hours at least." Spruce said. Molly shrugged.

"Because you were all setting up the cameras while I set up the monitors," Maggie said.

"And the first thing you did was set up the salt circle," Sherlock finished. Maggie nodded.

"Well, then if we have Maggie stay in the circle she should be safe, right? She can monitor the cameras," Ed asked.

"No, she should go back to the hotel. Or better yet, back home," Ed intoned. Maggie glared at him.

"I may be pregnant with your kid, but I am not going to let you-"

"Okay okay," Molly interrupted. This was getting to be far too much drama for her.

_Easy_, she thought grumpily. This was _supposed_ to be easy.

"Let's just get one thing straight here; we are here to get rid of a ghost. We, Sher-Shea and I, believe that the body, or a piece of the body, is somewhere in this house."

The Ghostfacers group had turned to face Molly, who was no longer compassionate Molly.

This was Hunter Molly.

"So here is what is going to happen. Maggie, you are going to stay within the circle and monitor the cameras. If anything seems off, call us on the walkie-talkies," Molly gestured at the walkie-talkies on the table. Sherlock reached over and grabbed one.

"Sherlock and I are going to go upstairs and look around. Spruce, Ed, and Harry, you guys will stay done here and look around the first floor and basement. Do we have an understanding?"

The group stared at Molly. Sherlock noticed that Harry looked ready to complain but one sharp look from Molly, and he shut his mouth. Without another word Molly hefted her knapsack back onto her back and set off outside of the room. Sherlock smirked at the group and followed the woman out.

Molly and Sherlock started up the stairs when they heard the doors to the parlor open. Molly glanced over the banister to see Spruce, camera in hand, and Ed head towards the basement door. A moment later Ed ran after them. Molly smirked at Sherlock and together they headed up the rest of the stairs.

* * *

><p>The hallways of the large mansion were quiet and dark, the only light coming from the moon peeking through the curtains. A fine layer of dust coated everything as Molly and Sherlock tiptoed their way down the halls, Sherlock's coat stirring up the dust with every step.<p>

"What did you think of all of that?" Molly whispered as they peeked around open doors, guns held out in front of them. Sherlock, who was holding Molly's pistol, Pretty Boy, shrugged.

"They have good intentions, but bad ways of going about it. They've seen far too many horror movies," Sherlock said softly. Molly nodded in agreement. Molly reached out to open the next door, then frowned when the knob wouldn't budge. She glanced at Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow. Molly held a hand out for Sherlock's lock pick kit. She leaned down in front of the lock and began to try and unlock it.

"Molly, it isn't working. Let me try," Sherlock said. Molly, who had grown quite frustrated, stood back to let Sherlock give it a go. After a few minutes of trying Sherlock shook his head.

"It's no use. I don't understand. I'm usually quite good at picking a lock," Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, sighing slightly. Molly patted his shoulder, a small grin on his face.

"You are enjoying this far too much."

"A bit," Molly laughed slightly, then sighed and leaned against the wall. Her eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she tried to think of a way to get the door open. She tapped the wall slightly as she began to think. Sherlock watched her when an idea hit him. He stood up quickly and leaned against the door.

"Sherlock?" Molly began, but he shushed her and began to tap on the door. After a moment he pulled back with a smile.

"What is it?"

"You have axe in the vehicle, correct?"

"Yeah but what-" it suddenly dawned on Molly, and she smiled.

"This door is made of fir wood. It is a common form of wood, and is quite prized for its grain. But, it also has a weakness."

"Weakness?"

Sherlock gestured to Molly, who leaned forward towards the door. Sherlock tapped the door a couple of times, then stepped back when Molly's eyes widened.

"Fir is softwood. Mind you, this wood has obviously been stressed to strengthen it a bit."

"But a couple of good whacks with an axe should take care of that," Molly finished. Sherlock nodded. They quickly made their way back down the long hall, not bothering to be quite as quiet as they had been earlier.

Molly, however, was starting to get worried. They hadn't yet seen any evidence of the ghost. It was getting…unnerving.

They made it down to the main floor and Sherlock started heading for the front door. Suddenly the doors to the parlor opened and Maggie ran out.

"Hey what are you two doing?" she yelled. Molly stopped short and her eyes widened.

"Maggie you weren't supposed to leave the circle," she said breathlessly. Maggie stopped short, fear entering her eyes. Molly caught Sherlock's eye.

Suddenly Maggie screamed and pointed behind them. Molly and Sherlock whipped around.

The spirit glared at them from behind her curtains of semi-translucent blonde hair. She bared her teeth at the hunters and raised her hand.

"_Sherlock_!" Molly screamed. Sherlock looked over to see Maggie suddenly go flying in the air. Sherlock ran forward, thankful for once that he was wearing those god-forsaken boots instead of his dress boots (they had much better traction on wooden floors). He decided on the best course of action and threw himself in front of the Asian woman. He took the brunt of the woman's weight, falling and sliding across the ground. He grunted when he hit the wall. He felt all of the breath leave his lungs.

Whilst Sherlock was busy saving Maggie, Molly lifted up her shotgun and shot a shell full of rock salt at the ghost, who disappeared into thin air. Molly ran over and helped Maggie, who was pale and shaking, off of Sherlock. She held out her hand for the man, who took it gratefully.

"Sherlock, take Maggie back into the circle," Molly ordered. Sherlock tried to argue, but Molly shot him a look, then glanced over at Maggie. The woman had gone extremely pale and was holding her stomach tightly. Sherlock nodded at Molly, then wrapped his arm around the girl's shoulder and dragged her back into the parlor. They gingerly stepped over the salt line and he helped the girl onto a chair.

Molly glanced after them before reloading her gun. It was around this time that the three boys decided to run back upstairs.

"We heard screaming! What happened?" Ed asked.

"Is Maggie okay?" Harry said at the same time. Molly nodded, then pushed the camera that Spruce was holding out of her face.

"Maggie is fine. She is with Shea. We think we might know where the body is at, but I have to get something out of my car first."

"Okay, I'll help," Ed said. Harry and Spruce turned to go into the parlor whilst Ed and Molly hurried to the front door. Molly had her handle on the door when she heard a man yell and a loud thump. She turned around just in time to see the doors of the parlor fly shut, blocking out the two men from entering.

"Oh god," Molly whispered.

"Well…uh, well…Maggie should be okay though, right?" Harry asked shakily as he walked over. Molly glanced at him.

"Right?" he pushed.

"I don't know…this is Shea's first hunt."

The other three men grew considerably paler.

* * *

><p>Inside the room Maggie had taken to clutching Sherlock's arm for dear life. Tears streamed down the Asian woman's face as she looked around the darkened room. Sherlock tried to ignore her in order to stare out into the darkness, trying to see if anyone were in the room. He had the distinct feeling that they were being watched.<p>

"Why did Molly call you Sherlock?" Maggie suddenly asked, breaking Sherlock's concentration. He turned to stare at the girl.

"I'm sorry?" he asked, hoping he had misheard her.

"Molly called you Sherlock…why?"

Sherlock searched his mind for a suitable answer.

"It's…it's my full name," he grimaced at the shoddy lie. One look at Maggie told him that she didn't believe him. She went back to being silent, although she continued to clutch his arm for comfort, and Sherlock went back to scanning the room.

"I won't tell anyone, you know," she said after a few moments of silence.

"Tell anyone what?" Sherlock feigned.

"Who you are."

Sherlock looked down sharply. Suddenly Maggie stood up and limped over to the monitors. Both were still up and running. Sherlock followed her movements with his eyes. She sat down in front of the monitors.

"What are you doing?" he asked her.

"Watching the others. It is the least I can do since I'm stuck in here," she said, hitting a few keys. Sherlock watched the woman until she smiled.

"Found them."

Sherlock walked over to stand beside her. He stared down at the monitor where he could see the four people in the main hall. Harry was walking around in a panic, when he suddenly turned on Molly. They watched as Harry yelled as Molly, who didn't react until she suddenly reached out and grabbed his collar, pulling him forward. After a few moments she let him go and then Molly and Ed split off from the group. They ran out of the house and out of the cameras view. Sherlock and Maggie continued to watch as Harry paced outside of the parlor doors and Spruce followed him with the camera.

"How did you know who I am?" Sherlock asked softly as they watched the monitors.

"We get television in America too, you know. About a week back I was home with the flu…well, I told the guys it was the flu…and they talked about you on the news. About…about your suicide. But…I guess that was all a lie then?"

Maggie didn't look away from the monitors, but she could feel his eyes boring into the back of her head. Suddenly she felt a chill down her spine. She looked up and gasped.

"S-Sherlock," she gasped. Sherlock looked up from the monitor and jumped slightly.

The girl stood at the edge of the salt line, her teeth bared. Suddenly Sherlock felt the table start shaking. He grabbed Maggie and pulled her down just as the table flipped over them, crashing onto the ground behind them. He felt glass and wood pieces shower over them. He did his best to try and cover Maggie from the worst of it.

When he looked up he could see the girl was gone. He stood up quickly, flinching when he felt something sticking out of his shoulder.

"Maggie, is there something-" he pointed at his shoulder. Maggie pushed herself off of the ground and looked up, hissing slightly through her teeth.

"It's a splinter of wood. Hold still, this might hurt a bit."

Maggie reached up and grabbed the splinter, grasping it between two fingers and pulling quickly. Sherlock gasped in pain and clutched his shoulder, but he couldn't feel any major damage. It was just a flesh wound.

"_Sherlock, look out_!" he heard Maggie scream. Sherlock looked up, then ducked quickly as a table leg came flying from out of nowhere. He felt it graze his head and strike the back wall, shattering into thousands of wood shards.

He felt Maggie grab his shoulders and pull him back against the wall. He did his best to situate himself so that he was in front of the pregnant woman. His vision was slightly blurry from the collision to his head, but he could still see the outline of the spirit. He watched in horror as she raised her hands above her head, her hair flaring out around her. However, it was the expression on her face that shocked him the most. It was hatred; pure, unadulterated hate, the likes of which he had never seen on someone so young and supposedly innocent.

For only the second time in his life Sherlock felt scared; completely, utterly scared. But there was no doubt in in his mind this time that this thing, this creature, was real. And she was out for blood.

* * *

><p>"His first hunt? <em>His first hunt<em>! Are you kidding me!" Harry yelled, his hands running a marathon through his hair in worry. Molly ignored him, choosing instead to open up her knapsack and pull out her shells. She piled a couple of them into her pocket and finished reloading her shotgun.

"Spruce, put the camera away," Molly ordered when she looked up. Spruce, for the first time, shut down the camera and stored it in the bag at his side.

"Now, Shea and I think we might know where the body of the daughter might be."

Harry stopped ranting to turn and stare over at Molly.

"What? What about Maggie?"

"Harry-" Ed started, but Harry cut him off.

"No, what about Maggie? She is shut up in that room with an _amateur_ and a ghost that wants her and _our baby_ dead! We need to figure out a way of getting that damn door open! And if you won't help me I'll-"

Suddenly Molly reached forward and grabbed Harry's collar, pulling him close to her face.

"_Enough_! You are not the only one who is worried! Someone I care about is locked in there too! But you _have_ to think with your head, not your heart, when you hunt. That is something you should learn about now, if you ever want to be a serious hunter."

Molly let him go. He stumbled back. Molly turned to face the others, who were staring at her.

"Now, Shea and I believe that the body, or at least a piece of the body, is in the bedroom. But we can't get it open, at least by the normal way."

"How are we going to get it open?" Ed asked. Molly smirked.

"Come with me. Spruce, you and Harry keep watch."

Molly turned around and ran towards the front door. Ed followed her outside the door. They ran down the front steps and out to the grove of trees where Molly had parked the Chevelle. She threw open the trunk, ignoring Ed's gasp at the arsenal in the back, and started throwing things out of the way. She smiled when she pulled out two axes. She handed one to Ed, who stared at it in trepidation (either he had never held an axe before, or he had just noticed the dried blood on the axe head).

Inside Molly was a storm of emotions. She knew Sherlock was in trouble, probably greater trouble than he had ever been in before. This was his first run in with a spirit, and spirits did have a conscious like a human.

She realized suddenly that, yet again, it was going to be up to her. 'Mild-mannered' Molly was going to have to save the day…again. Molly slammed the trunk shut with such a force that Ed jumped. She looked over at him, a glint in her eyes.

"Let's do this."

Whatever Harry and Spruce had been expecting, a wild woman with an axe obviously wasn't one of them. They jumped up when she re-entered the mansion. After a moment of hesitation Harry came ver.

"We heard a crash inside the parlor. I think the ghost is in there."

"Well, then we'll just have to distract her. I wonder how she'll feel about strangers in her bedroom."

Molly ran up the stairs with Harry, Ed, and the camera-toting Spruce following in her wake. She ran down the hall and stopped in front of the bedroom door. She studied the door for a moment.

"What is she doing?" she heard one of the men say. Then she smiled.

She lifted the axe up high, calling back to the times that Bobby forced her to chop wood for the furnace. With a loud yell she brought the axe down on the door as hard as she could. She pulled the axe, which had come embedded in the wood, as hard as she could. As if he could sense her thought process, Harry tore the axe from Ed's hands and ran over beside Molly. He swung the axe as hard as he could into the door, leaving a long slash mark through the wood. He tore the axe from the wood just as Molly's axe came down again. They did this back and forth for a while until Ed became tired. Harry took his place, but Molly didn't quiet. She had built up quite a bit of stamina over the years.

Suddenly they saw a light through a crack in the door. Harry stepped back as Molly hacked like a mad woman as the crack, making it bigger and bigger. She shot her foot through the door and chopped at it a bit more until there was a relatively big hole in the door. She dropped the axe and wiped the sweat away from her brow.

She carefully pulled herself through the hole in the door, flinching when a stray piece scratched her arm. After she had crawled through she helped Harry into room while Harry and Spruce stood watch.

The room was a typical young girl's room. The walls were pink and the curtains were made of lace that allowed the moon to illuminate the room. Doll's lined one shelf. Molly walked over an examined them before stepping back with a shiver.

"Creepy," Harry said, shivering at the unwavering stare that the dolls sent their way.

"My sentiments exactly," Molly muttered. She turned around and stopped quickly.

"Harry," she whispered, her eyes wide.

"Wha-" Harry stopped when he saw what Molly was pointing out. He clutched his gun to his chest.

"My god…who would do something like this?" Molly whispered to no one.

* * *

><p>Sherlock raised his hand to his face in a desperate attempt to block away any sort of attack that the girl was going to send their way. He could hear Maggie sobbing quietly behind him. He heard the spirit-girl scream suddenly. He crashed his eyes shut.<p>

But…nothing happened.

Sherlock looked up to find that the room was abandoned. He stood up quickly and brushed off his coat, hissing when he cut his finger open on a stray piece of glass. He also noted the blood that had dribbled down the side of his face. He turned and helped Maggie off of the floor, who looked a bit worse for wear.

"Are you alright?" he asked her. She nodded. Sherlock let her go and walked over to the bag labeled 'Ghostfacers'.

"Sherlock, don't leave the circle!" Maggie all but yelled. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her.

"I think something distracted her. She'll be back, but we need to be ready."

Sherlock dug through the bag until he found what he was looking for; salt. He thickened the circle around Maggie and the leftovers of the table. Maggie went through the remains of the computers, sighing and muttering about the damage costs.

"A-ha!" Sherlock heard her exclaim. He turned to see her pull out their walkie-talkie. It looked about as beat up as they felt.

"Is anyone there? Over," she spoke into the walkie-talkie after she turned it on. They listened as the sound of static filled the room.

"Harry? Ed? Are you there? Are you okay? Over."

Maggie began to panic.

"Spruce? Molly? Please, someone answer me!"

Sherlock walked over and took the walkie-talkie from her hands before placing a gentle hand on her back. Maggie glared up at him through her tears.

"What?" he asked.

"Are you sure you are Sherlock Holmes? The Sherlock Holmes I read about sounded like a self-reliant ass hole that didn't give a care about anyone else but himself."

Sherlock stared down at the woman. He contemplated over her words. He opened his mouth.

"I believe…_death_ has made me a new man."

Maggie looked about to say something more when the walkie-talkie in Sherlock's hand suddenly came to life.

"Sher…the girl…bedroom…bod…help…hurry…"

Then the voice cut out. Sherlock and Maggie stared down at the walkie-talkie, then Sherlock sprang into action. He ran back over to the bag he had gotten the salt out of and pulled out two fireplace pokers that he had noticed earlier. He tossed one to Maggie, who caught it in midair.

"What are you going to do?" she asked him. He twirled the poker in his hand, then glanced over at Maggie.

"Just what they asked; I'm going to go _help_."

"And me?"

"You are going to stay here. Do not argue," he pointed the fireplace poker at her. She stopped short from crossing the salt line.

"You have more than yourself to think of," he pointed out. Maggie thought about it for a moment, then nodded before backing into the middle of the circle. Sherlock nodded once, then turned to the door. He tried the handle, only to discover it was locked from the outside.

Later he would have chocked it up to adrenaline or mild panic. But something possessed him in that moment. Sherlock tore off his coat and threw it to Molly before taking one, two, three steps back. Then, like a mad man, he ran forward shoulder first. He felt the jarring hit through his entire body, and thanked the universe for his uncanny balance keeping him upright when the lock broke and the door swung around to bang a large hole in the opposite wall. Sherlock stopped and rolled his shoulder, trying to ignore the extreme shooting pains. He picked up the poker that he had dropped and made his way up the stairs as quickly as his legs would carry him.

* * *

><p>Molly stared down at the mummified remains of Agatha Barton, and all she felt was contempt for the deceased master of the manor.<p>

"He…he kept his daughter's body," Harry stated. Molly nodded solemnly.

"It is no wonder the girl's spirit is so malevolent," Molly whispered.

Molly gazed at the leathery body, studying it much like Sherlock would have done. The hands were folded lovingly on the faded pink dress that the body was clad in. Over the years her skin had turned to leather, and everything had shrank, causing the body to very nearly swim in the dress it wore. A blonde wig had been sewn onto the skin, most probably after the real hair had fallen away. The most jarring feature, however, were the wide, hollow eye sockets that continued to stare off into oblivion.

Much like the dolls across the room, her stare was never ending.

"This is insane," she heard Harry say. She heard him telling Ed and Spruce what they had found inside the room. Molly picked up her bag and pulled out the salt and poured it liberally on top of the corpse. Then she pulled out the small glass container of gasoline. She unscrewed the lid and poured it all over the bed. She knew that they were going to have to book it out of the manor. But maybe burning down wouldn't be such a bad thing for such a terrifically terrible place. Almost on impulse Molly reached out slowly and gently placed her hand on top of the leathery hand.

"_Molly_!" She heard Harry scream. She whipped around just in time to see Harry go flying across the room. He struck the wall so hard that Molly heard a crack. He slid down the wall and just laid there.

"_Shit!_" Molly yelled. She pulled her shotgun around and aimed it into the air, but, a split-second later, she found it flying out of her hands. She grabbed out for it, but it had skidded under the wall of dolls.

And then the little girl was standing in front of Molly.

Molly sucked in a deep breath, backing up slightly beside the corpse. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the zippo lighter, but that went flying out of her hand as well. She watched as it landed beside the spirit, who took a moment to look down at it before looking back up at Molly. They both stared at each other. Molly tried one last tactic.

"Agatha? Agatha Barton?" she asked, bending slightly to get herself on the girl's level. The spirit glared out at her from behind her curtains of curly blonde hair. Molly was reminded of a body that had come into her morgue a few years before. It had been a murder-suicide on the father's part, with the wife and youngest son and daughter having been poisoned. But the eldest daughter, a black eyed, black haired young woman of 14, had been brutally stabbed over and over. It turns out that the eldest daughter had been violated by her father, and had gone to the police about it the day before. He had killed her for it. For protecting herself.

"It's not fair Agatha. It's not fair what happened to you," Molly said. This seemed to catch the girl's attention.

"Oh yes, I know Agatha. I know what your father did to you…and to your baby."

The spirit hissed at her and flickered a moment. When she reappeared she looked even angrier than before.

"_You know nothing_!" it hissed. Molly stepped back a step, then walked forward again and held her ground.

"I know that it wasn't your fault. Your father was a disturbed man. But he has since met his end. He is dead Agatha."

The spirit glared at Molly, but she was no longer acting as though she would attack at any moment. It was almost as if she were listening to what Molly had to say. Molly walked forward very slowly, careful to keep her eyes steady on the girl.

"That's right Agatha. Your father is dead. He was stabbed in prison. Everything you are doing now, well there is no reason for it, is there? It is time to move on Agatha."

The girl stared at Molly for a moment longer, then her face broke out into a malicious grin. She suddenly flew towards Molly.

But Molly had been expecting this. At the same time she dove forward and grabbed the lighter. She kept a hard grip on the small metal object even as she felt all of the air leave her lungs. The spirit had grabbed Molly and had pushed her against the wall of dolls. Molly covered her head as dolls rained around her, their porcelain faces smashing around her body. She curled herself into as small a ball as she could and hoped that she could find a way out of this.

Suddenly she heard the spirit let out an ear shattering scream.

* * *

><p>Sherlock raced down the hallway that he and Molly had been down earlier. The first thing he noticed was the camera. It looked as though it had skidded down the hallway. Sherlock picked it up and recognized it as Spruce's. He squinted his eyes and finally saw the heavy set man. He was lying on the ground, motionless. Sherlock pressed his fingers to the man's throat and sighed slightly in relief when he felt a pulse. He set down the camera and made his way much slower down the hallway.<p>

He took a step and nearly tripped over a hand. He stepped back and bent down to investigate. The hand turned out to belong to Ed. Sherlock checked his pulse. Also unconscious.

Sherlock finally made it to the bedroom. He noticed Harry slumped against the wall through the hole in the door. Then he looked up and his eyes widened.

He watched the ghost practically fling Molly into the wall. He crawled through the hole in the door as the dolls showered around Molly. He tightened his grip on the iron fire poker and tiptoed his way forward. The ghost turned as if it could sense his presence.

Sherlock stopped analyzing. Stopped thinking. Stopped deducing. He did the only thing he could think of in this situation. He let his body, his instincts, take over.

And he swung. Hard and fast.

The ghost screamed as the iron rod tore through its transparent body. It disappeared into a mist, but Sherlock knew it would be back. He dropped the rod when he noticed Molly's curled up body. He ran over, pushing broken dolls out of the way. He ducked down beside Molly and placed his hand on the woman's shoulder.

"Molly, are you alright?" he whispered. Molly pushed her hair out of her face, flinching slightly when she pulled away and saw the blood on her hand.

"Yeah, I'm good. Thanks, by the way," she added. Sherlock smirked and stood up, helping Molly up. He could see little lacerations all over her body, but they were shallow and only bled a bit.

"C'mon, we need to burn the body," she stepped over the dolls with assistance from Sherlock. Together they crossed to the bed and looked down upon the body. Molly flicked out the lighter, struck it, and then threw the lighter onto the body. They watched as it instantly started.

A wild wind surrounded them a moment, whipped their hair and clothing. Then a voice, a wispy little voice that barely registered, sounded in their ears.

_Thanks_

And then it was gone. Molly let out a heavy breath and leaned against the bed railing. The wind had put out the fire, and all that remained were the ashes. Then she slumped down on the ground and leaned her head back against the cold metal bars. Sherlock sat down beside her.

"You're bleeding," he muttered. Molly laughed.

"So are you," she said. They sat in a moment of silence. Then they heard another voice.

"Hello? Is it over?" they heard Maggie yell down the hall. Molly lifted her head up.

"Almost forgot about them."

Suddenly Harry sat up quickly with a yell. Sherlock winced, the ache that had started in his head intensifying.

"Yeah…almost," he murmured. Molly laughed aloud. Sherlock glanced over at her.

"You can laugh at a time like this," he stated, rather than questioned. Molly glanced over at him with tired eyes, then shut them and looked away.

"Sometimes…sometimes you just have to laugh."


	6. I Don't Need You

**Oh man I am SOOOOO sorry how long this has taken to get published! I have had tons to do with school (midterms...ugh) and planning my wedding (which is only 3 months away!). Anyway, this week is spring break so, hopefully, i'll get a couple of chapters out.**

**Also, this chapter is a bit slower than the others. I had a hard time writing it, but I just wants to address some emotions and information that I've been wanting to get out, but didn't want to clog up the rest of the adventures ahead!**

**Anyway, disclaimers and all that (I do not own I do not own Blah Blah Bah), and please please PLEASE review! Reviews make me ignore my essays and seating arrangment charts in order to write this story! XD**

* * *

><p>Molly and Sherlock sat on the hood of their car. They leaned against each other for more comfort than warmth. They both watched the <em>Ghostfacers<em>, made up of Harry, Ed, Spruce, and Maggie, pack up what few pieces of equipment they had been able to salvage. Molly grinned in amusement when Harry leaned over to kiss Maggie on the cheek and Ed pretended to vomit. Molly absently scratched her arm.

"Don't pick at the scabs. You'll make yourself bleed," she heard Sherlock say softly. She glanced over at him, noticing that he looked about as tired as she felt. Then she looked down at her arm and sighed at the small trail of fresh blood that was now mingling with all the other blood and dirt she was covered in before she shrugged. She looked over just as the other group made their way over.

"Well, I think it is safe to say that you two are official _Ghostfacers_!" Harry said with far to much enthusiasm after the prior events. Molly noticed Sherlock roll his eyes and open his mouth, so she spoke before he had a chance.

"That is…really great. Thanks Harry."

He nodded with a big goofy smile on his face. Molly saw Sherlock glance down at her, sending her a pointed look, but, thankfully, he didn't say anything. Spruce and Ed nodded to the two before the three men turned and walked back to their van. Maggie was left standing there.

"It was really…interesting, to meet the both of you. I hope we'll run into each other again someday," she said shyly. Molly smiled before she pushed herself off of the hood. To the surprise of Maggie and Sherlock, the shorter woman took the other in a soft hug.

"It was nice to meet you too Maggie."

Maggie sent Molly a confused look when she pulled away.

"Hey, we lady-hunters need to stick together," Molly joked. Maggie smiled, then turned to Sherlock.

"And don't worry. I was able to erase as much of the footage I could find of you _Shea_. Your secret is safe with me."

"Thank you Maggie," Sherlock said genuinely. Maggie nodded at them both one more time before turning around to catch up with the other men. Sherlock and Molly watched them drive away in silence.

"So…what now?" Sherlock asked. Molly stared after the van, then sighed and pushed herself off of the car. Sherlock watched her for a moment.

Really watched her.

He studied her.

Her body language. Her stance. He was reminded yet again that this was not the Molly that he had once known. This…woman, was so much stronger. So much harder.

And so much easier to break.

* * *

><p>Later that evening Molly and Sherlock sat on their opposing beds. Sherlock winced as he laid back. He sat up quickly and placed his hand over the makeshift stitches over his shoulder blade. Molly glanced up at him from where she was currently putting a band-aid over a large cut in her leg.<p>

"Pain killers haven't set in?" she asked. Sherlock lowered his hand and spared a quick glance at the side table before looking back at the bedsheets. But Molly had seen it. She followed his former eyeline and furrowed her brows.

"Sherlock, why didn't you take the pain killers?" she asked. She knew Sherlock had to be in quite a bit of pain, what with the stitches in his shoulder and the rather large lump on his temple. Sherlock shrugged, then winced again. Molly pushed herself off of the bed and came to rest on the edge of Sherlock's. She reached out to check his head wound again, but he slapped her hand away.

"I'm fine Molly," he said. Molly gave him a pointed look that reminded him far too much of John. Sherlock scowled.

"I'm not taking them," he said sharply. Molly exhaled softly and looked up at the ceiling.

"I swear you are like a petulant child sometimes," she muttered. She reached out and grabbed at the pills before holding them out to Sherlock.

"Don't make me force them on you," she said just as sharply. Sherlock glared at the girl, then looked away. He knew she wouldn't give up. Not without a fight. He knew what he had to do. But he was going to hate every minute of it.

"Molly, I can't take those," he said softly as he pushed her hand away. She could sense the change in his voice. Her eyebrows furrowed in worry and she sent him a questioning look. Sherlock sighed then cleared his throat.

"Molly, do you remember the case about the pink lady and the taxi driver?"

Molly nodded.

"Well, during the case I _apparently_ withheld evidence from them-"

"Yeah, I remember reading about this in Jo-…in the blog. Didn't Lestrade pull a fake drug bust to get you give them the evidence you had found?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her interruption.

"Does everyone read that damn blog?"

Molly didn't even blink.

"Yep. I've even gotten Bobby into it."

"Molly, will you just listen to me?" Sherlock interrupted. Molly shut her mouth, a sheepish look on her face. Sherlock sighed and rubbed his forehead.

"The drug bust was fake but…but the fact is I used to be addicted to narcotics."

Molly's eyes widened. Sherlock felt a strange emotion…shame, maybe, when he noted the look on her face.

"It was back at Uni. I liked…I liked how it made me feel. How it helped me think…or at least I _thought_ it helped me. Lestrade eventually found me and helped me sober up. But more than that…he gave me some sort of purpose."

Molly nodded in understanding. Then she glanced down at the pills in her hand, and then back up at Sherlock.

"So you won't take the pain relievers because…?"

"Because I don't want to lose myself again. I have to be sharp. Especially right now."

"Why especially right now?"

"Well, I made a promise to your Uncle. To make sure nothing happens to you."

Molly and Sherlock stared at each other, their eyes locked for just a moment.

Then Molly stood up quickly as she cleared her throat. She hid her suddenly bright red face behind her hair as she bustled over to the first aid kit. Sherlock stared after her in confusion, but not just for her actions. He was also extremely confused at his own.

Molly composed herself at the table before she turned around and walked back over. She put some tablets into his hand.

"Don't worry, they are just Tylenol. Just to stave off any infection."

Sherlock nodded and took them without a fuss. Molly lay back down on her bed, then glanced over.

"Today…today went well," she said softly. Sherlock lay back against his pillows, trying to ignore his smarting shoulder. He rolled until he was lying on his good side.

"I believe so," he said softly.

"No one died. That's pretty well in my book," Molly said, ending her sentence with a loud yawn.

"Goodnight Molly," Sherlock said, shutting his eyes.

"Good morning Sherlock," Molly joked quietly.

* * *

><p>The two hunters, one a novice and one well versed, slept through the remaining day and the next evening. Both had been exhausted by the events of the night before, and both were making up for that.<p>

Sherlock was the first to wake up. He stretched his body, wincing when his shoulder began to hurt. He almost regretted not taking the pain pills from Molly…almost. He suddenly realized that this was probably the longest he had slept since…well, since leaving England and his entire life behind. He sat up and rested his feet against the cold carpet, feeling the thick orange shag absorb the warmth in his body. He sighed slightly and rubbed his face. When he pulled his hand away his fingers were damp. Annoyed with himself he wiped at his eyes until any and all trace of the tears were gone. He pushed himself up quietly and made his way into the bathroom.

He didn't notice the set of eyes watching his every movement, even as the body still acted asleep. One of the benefits of being a hunter, Molly mused. The ability to remain unnoticed.

Molly waited to hear the door shut all of the way before she chanced sitting up. She had seen the look on his face. It was a look she had only noticed on his face once before, and even then he had been careful not to let it show. Just in case someone was watching.

Heartbreak

She suddenly recalled a conversation she had with Mycroft after Sherlock had 'died'.

_Mycroft had come into the morgue and was looking down upon his brothers still body. Molly had just entered the morgue and had nearly jumped out of her skin. It was only her hunters training that kept her from calling out. _

"_Don't worry, he is still alive," she said in order to make her presence known, but Mycroft did not even acknowledge her presence. _

"_I am aware."_

_Mycroft turned around, a bored expression on his face._

"_And I am not worried."_

_Molly felt a hot bolt of anger stab through her. _

"_Look, Mycroft, if you don't care-"_

"_I did not say I didn't care. I said I wasn't worried. I know that he is in capable hands."_

_Molly blushed slightly._

"_Sorry, I didn't mean it."_

_She walked over beside Mycroft to look down at Sherlock. He didn't look as if he were breathing and, if you were to touch his neck, you would barely feel a pulse. The antidote to the poison she had given him was beginning to react, but it would be awhile yet. _

"_Your angel friend did a good job at making it look real," he suddenly said. Molly's eyes widened. She looked up slowly until she was facing the elder Holmes._

"_How did you-"_

"_I know many things, Miss Hooper. Things that not even you may know. I also know what you and my brother plan on doing; you are going to try and discover how James Moriarty got out of hell."_

_Molly nodded mutely. Mycroft smiled, although it turned into more of a smirk (could the Holmes men actually smile?), before he grabbed his umbrella that had been leaning against the slab that Sherlock was lying on. _

"_I will speak to some of my…lesser known associates and see what I can pull up for you."_

_He began to leave the morgue when he seemed to have a second thought. He turned slightly._

"_And please Miss Hooper…take care of him. He will need you now more than ever."_

_Molly, for some reason, found this kind of funny. She had known Sherlock for almost two years now, and never had she known him to need anyone to take care of him. Even when John would try he would usually receive a sneer and a quick, sharp retort. She laughed slightly, but stopped when she noticed the extremely serious look on Mycroft's face._

"_I'm sorry. It's just…this is Sherlock we're talking about!" she spurted out. Mycroft rose an eyebrow and Molly almost sighed at the annoyingly uncanny resemblance to his brother. Of course, if Sherlock was to have learned it from someone, it was more than likely through imitating his older sibling. _

"_Yes Miss Hooper, I know this. And I also know my brother. Before all of this. Before he met John, or you, or even Mrs. Hudson, he was almost less than human. He didn't care about anyone. Not even himself."_

_Molly suddenly realized that the man she was currently talking too wasn't the course, distasteful Mycroft Holmes she was used too. This was a concerned older brother who, in all honesty, didn't know what to do to help his younger brother._

_Mycroft stepped forward and placed a warm hand on Molly's shoulder._

"_Molly," he said her name for the first time. "Over the last year my brother has experienced something that he is not used too; love. And not just Miss Adler. Oh no. She was just the most obvious. He also loves John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. And you, Molly. He loves you. And you all show him that in return. He just doesn't…understand. Or at least…I don't believe he did."_

_Molly looked over at the pale body on the slab._

"_Until now," she muttered. Mycroft nodded solemly, removing his hand from Molly's shoulder and gripping his cane again._

"_He is far more fragile now than he ever was. He has come to realize what it is to love someone, and to what extent he is willing to go for those he loves. He has come to realize, for the first time in his life…what it is like to be really human. To feel. To care. I am just worried how he is going to handle it. I am afraid…that it may break him."_

"_No," Molly said softly. Mycroft glanced down in surprise. She looked him straight in the eyes. Mycroft suddenly realized how strong this girl, this little fragile girl, truly was. _

"_I won't let him break. Never."_

Molly shook her head in an attempt to banish the thoughts from her mind. She pushed herself off of her bed and began to make it.

"You do realize that there are maids that do that," she heard Sherlock say from the bathroom doorway. When she turned he was fully dressed, his voice and stance completely devoid of the emotions she had seen on him earlier.

"Yeah, but I always feel bad about the salt. I try to help out as much as I can," Molly said, only half joking. She grabbed some clothing from her pack and pushed past Sherlock, shutting the door on him. She took her time in the shower, wincing as the hot stream struck all of the lacerations that littered her body. She stepped out and changed some of the bandages on the worse cuts before getting dressed in a comfortable pair of jeans and a red tank top. She stepped out of the bathroom and was just about to grab her boots when she noticed a very strange look on Sherlock's face.

He wasn't looking at her though. He was looking down at something in his hand, his eyebrows furrowed. He looked up and noticed her. Almost as though a switch went off his face smoothed over into a bored expression. He held out the object.

"It began to go off while you were in the shower."

Molly hesitantly took the cell phone and opened it up.

_1 Missed Call_

_John Watson_

Molly looked up sharply.

"Sherlock, you didn't-"

"Of course I didn't," he snapped. He turned away from her and busied himself with pulling on his coat. Molly sighed and pocketed the cell. Not twenty minutes later they were pulling out of the parking lot of the motel. Sherlock sat back into the seat and stared out the window. He watched the sun as it began to crest on the horizon.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. I know you miss him. I miss him too," Molly said softly as she stared out the windshield. Sherlock glanced back for a moment then stared back out the window. He placed his chin on his hand and his fingers seemed to curl around his lips; his thinking pose.

"You barely knew him," he said softly. Molly was reminded of what Mycroft has said to Sherlock after Irene Adler had faked her death.

_You barely knew her._

"It doesn't matter Sherlock. Other than you, he was one of the first people to get to know me."

"But…I didn't get to know you."

Molly raised an eyebrow in disbelief at the man.

"Sherlock, you knew all about me with just one glance," she said with laughter in her voice. Sherlock shrugged slightly.

"Obviously not. I couldn't figure all of…_this_ out," he waved his hand in the air, as though encompassing the entire situation they were in.

"I'm just better than most at hiding these sorts of things," she said, shrugging slightly. Sherlock glanced over at Molly. He could see that she was getting uncomfortable with the subject.

"Why?" he asked.

"Sherlock," she warned. She knew he was picking at her. Some days he was this super (mad!) genius. Other days…he was like the annoying little brother she didn't want.

"I'm just wondering. You _are_ always trying to get me to talk," he pointed out. Molly rolled her eyes in annoyance, but then she stared out of the window, deep in thought.

"You remember what I said about my parents? I'm not sure if you will. It was kind of a crazy situation."

"I remember. You spoke of your parents trading their souls for your life."

Molly nodded. She wavered into silence. Sherlock watched her but didn't say anything. He could tell that she was thinking. He noticed that when she was deep in thought her eyebrows would furrow and she would bite slightly at her lower lip. Finally she spoke.

"I was the one to find the bodies," she said softly. Sherlock turned sharply, an eyebrow raising in surprise. He had suspected, the first time he met her, that she had suffered some trauma in her life. But for a child, still in the mid-early stages of cognitive development, to walk in on the bodies of her parents…it was one of the worst traumas.

"What happened?" he asked softly. Molly stared out at the road for a moment more before she put on the turn signal. She pulled over on the almost empty road. Sherlock watched her clutch the steering wheel. He realized, suddenly, that this was one of those…_emotional_ moments that Sherlock sometimes saw on John's terrifically awful movies. Those moments when the one bursts into tears, lets out some emotional proclamation, and then expects the other friend to do the same. Sherlock regarded Molly warily. He was lucky John had never pulled these sorts of situations on him.

Molly turned in her seat to face Sherlock.

"My mom and dad were ripped apart by hellhounds," she said simply. There was no exclamation of emotion. No hitched breath, or tears. Just a simple statement and a blank stare.

Sherlock realized that this wasn't one of those situations, because Molly _couldn't_ allow it to become such. She couldn't allow herself to become emotional over this.

He realized with a jolt that she was almost as…off as him.

"What happened after that?" he asked genuinely. He actually wanted to know.

"Afterwards? Well, lets see. I went to stay with my granddad. But…he didn't like me. He said I was a blight on the family; a cursed girl. He used to beat me with his cane when he got mad."

Molly lifted her shirt slightly. Sherlock noticed deep, dark scars that he hadn't noticed before. They were old, but looked like they must have really hurt when they were inflicted. She lowered her shirt, suddenly slightly self-concious. But it was not every day, she convinced herself, that she got to have a real heart-to-heart with Sherlock-emotional-as-as-rock-Holmes.

"When my teachers found out they reported my granddad. I was relocated to live with Bobby after that."

"Then why come back to England? If so many bad things happened to you there," Sherlock asked, genuinely confused. He was almost relishing the fact that he was getting to pick Molly's brain…the real Molly. She…intrigued him, in a way that only one other woman had ever done before.

"I don't know really. I mean, my life wasn't terrible in South Dakota. I didn't have many friends, but I had Bobby. And Sam and Dean. And I was a part of something…but I don't know. I guess I was just drawn back to England. I was drawn by the fact that it was my birthplace. It was where my parents lived…and died. I guess I just…I wanted a fresh start. I wanted friends, or at least people that liked me, and maybe a relationship. And I wanted to get away from all the evil."

"So you took a job in a morgue?"

Molly glanced up and Sherlock noticed her lips twitch slightly in amusement.

"There is a distinct difference between _death_ and_ evil_."

With that Molly turned around in her seat and restarted the car. She pulled back out onto the road, but Sherlock wasn't ready to give up quite yet.

"You shouldn't care if people like you or not," he said. Molly glanced over at him, an eyebrow raised.

"But you do," she said back at him. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. Molly glanced over at him, then laughed slightly.

"Don't look so perturbed. Everyone does, in some form or another. It's just one aspect of being human."

Sherlock made a face that resembled one who had just smelled something decomposing in a trash can. Molly couldn't help it. She began to laugh even harder. Sherlock smirked after a moment, realizing that she was also slightly poking fun at him.

They drove on in a much calmer atmosphere than they had been in that morning. Molly realized that Sherlock needed this; he needed these answers. He hated not knowing things. He needed to know what had happened to her so that he could understand more about her world, and, about the whole world in general.

* * *

><p>"What are we doing here again?" Sherlock asked as they drove through a suberb in Battle Creek, Michigan. Molly stared around the houses, cringing slightly. She couldn't imagine Dean living here, let alone living here without having gone stark raving mad. This was the kind of place that a hunter wouldn't be caught dead. Too…enclosed.<p>

"We are here to see Dean."

"Why?" Sherlock asked. Molly rolled her eyes.

"Because I want too, that's why," Molly was suddenly reminded of a tired mother scolding her annoying child. The idea brought a smile to her face.

"It is obvious that isn't the only reason," Sherlock snapped. Molly glanced sharply at him, but he was ignoring her in favor of studying the cookie cutter houses that lined the streets. Molly heaved a heavy sigh.

"I was going to see if…if he wanted to come with us."

"_Why_," Sherlock repeated, turning sharply to face Molly.

"_Because_ Sherlock. We could use an experienced Hunter with us. We are seriously over our heads."

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it. He realized, with some disdain, that Molly was right. He had only been on one hunt, and she was still pretty rusty. Sherlock sighed and turned to look out the window.

"What is the address?" Sherlock asked after a minute.

"213 Weinbach Avenue," she said abstently to Sherlock as she looked around the cul-de-sac.

"If that is the case, then you passed it about ten minutes ago."

Molly turned slowly to glare at Sherlock before pulling a U-Turn. She ignored the honks of the new, energy-efficiant cars directed towards her.

"You are uncomfortable," Sherlock stated. Molly rolled her eyes.

"This place gives me the willies."

"But a haunted mansion with a killer ghost child doesn't?"

Molly shook her head sincerely. Sherlock looked away, but cracked a small smile when she wasn't looking.

Molly pulled up in front of a cookie-style two bedroom house. She stopped the car and just stared out at the house, uncertainty clouding her features.

"I don't think he lives here," she said softly. Sherlock glanced at Molly and raised an eyebrow when he noticed the look on her face. He turned back to the house, then shook his head.

"I believe he does. The home has remnants of only two occupants that have been upset by the arrival of a third."

Molly glared at Sherlock before she got out of the car. Sherlock watched her circle around the car before he followed suit. He watched Molly pull her leather jacket tight around her body in discomfort, then she squared her shoulders and walked up the steps. Molly brushed her hair out of her face and sighed. Then she reached out and rang the doorbell.

"Molly, why are you tapping your foot?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm…worried."

"About?"

"What if Dean doesn't want to see me?" she blurted. Sherlock shrugged, unable to provide comfort. He wasn't quite sure what to do in this situation. So he tried something that he had seen John do with one of his girlfriends before. He placed his hand gently on her shoulder and squeezed. This seemed to provide her with some comfort.

Suddenly the door opened, spilling light onto the porch. Sherlock snatched his hand off of her shoulder and put it back into his coat pocket.

A young man of about ten or eleven was standing in the doorway. He glanced up at the two strangers on the porch, a wary expression on his face.

"Can I help you?" he asked. Molly glanced back at Sherlock, who shrugged, before she turned back to the young boy. She leaned down to get to his level.

"Hi there. I'm Molly, and this is my friend Shea. We're looking for Dean Winchester. We were told he lives here."

The boy's eyebrows raised into his hairline. Suddenly he turned.

"Mom!" he yelled out. Molly stood back up to her full height as a dark haired woman stepped up behind the young boy. She looked out in suspicion at Molly and Sherlock.

"Can I help you?" she asked curtly as she ushered her son behind her. The woman was quite pretty, with long brunette hair and big brown eyes that hid a deep maternal ferocity. Molly could understand why Dean would be attracted to her.

"We're looking for Dean Winchester," Sherlock said swiftly, interrupting Molly's thoughts. Molly glanced accusingly up at Sherlock. He shrugged at her and ignored her gaze. The woman raised her eyebrows. She leaned against the doorframe and crossed her shoulders.

"Why?" she asked. Molly suddenly realized how this must look; two shady looking people (although Sherlock was far shadier than Molly, in her opinion), one who was covered in lots of scratches, standing on the porch in the 'burbs asking about a man they weren't even sure lived here. Molly sighed, wishing she was able to get into this a bit slower…no thanks to Sherlock.

"Mom, she said her name was Molly Hooper," the boy looked up at his mother. She glanced down at her son in confusion.

"Don't you remember Dean telling us about Molly? His relative from England?"

A look of realization dawned on the woman's face. She looked back up at Molly.

"Is that true? Are you related to Dean?"

Molly shrugged, a smile tugging at her lips.

"Sort of adopted, but yeah."

The woman introduced herself as Lisa Braedon, and her son Ben Braedon. She gestured for Molly and Sherlock to follow her inside.

"Dean won't be home for about another fifteen minutes or so. Make yourselves at home," she said, gesturing to the living room. Molly sat down awkwardly on the nice upholstery, her knees drawn up slightly. Sherlock, on the other hand, acted right at home in the well-kept living room. He sat back in one of the chairs and observed his surroundings with a keen eye. Molly kept one eye on him, and one on Lisa.

"Did either of you want something to drink?" she asked as she picked up the living room. She picked up a backpack that had been thrown into the middle of the room. She hollered for her son, who ran over to grab it from her. He glanced at Molly and Sherlock, his gaze lingering longest on Sherlock, before he ran up the stairs.

"How old is he?" Molly asked, gesturing towards Ben.

"Oh, he's almost eleven," Lisa said as she sat down on a love seat. Suddenly Ben came back down the stairs. He crossed the living room to sit next to his mother, but kept his eyes trained on Sherlock. Lisa glanced down in confusion at her son. Molly tried to break the tension that had taken over the room suddenly. She cleared her throat first, then opened her mouth.

"So…um…how did you meet Dean?"

Lisa shifted in the love seat and put an arm around Ben.

"Well, lets see. We met about…eleven years ago. I was a yoga instructor. We just sort of…hit it off. If you know what I mean."

Molly glanced up in alarm while Ben wrinkled his nose in disgust. Molly pointed at Ben.

"Dean's not…"

"No no no, he isn't. But he's a better dad than any others could have been," she said, squeezing her son slightly.

"Anyway, he showed up about three years ago and…he saved us. So when he showed up on our doorstep a couple of months back…"

"After Sam's death," Molly finished. Lisa nodded. Suddenly the sounds of a truck could be heard outside of the house.

"Sounds like Dean's home," Lisa said, standing up. Ben got up and together they made their way to the front door. Molly gripped the cushion underneath her.

"You still miss Sam," Sherlock said in more of a statement than a question. Molly glanced at Sherlock in confusion.

"Of course I do Sherlock. I miss him…like you miss John. Our...our lives have changed Sherlock."

Molly glanced up when she heard heavy footsteps.

"But we can never forget those who made our lives worth living," she murmered. She stood up and faced the man who had just entered the room.

"Molly?" he said slowly. Suddenly his arms were full with a full grown woman.

Molly squeezed Dean as hard as she could. After a few seconds he hugged back with as much fervor. Molly pulled her head out of his chest and rested her chin against his shoulder.

"I've missed you," she said softly. Dean just nodded. When they pulled apart Molly had to take a moment to compose herself. She didn't realize how hard it was actualy going to be to see Dean for the first time since Sam's death.

"Molly, what are you doing here?" Dean asked. Molly shrugged, barely noticing Lisa and Ben re-enter the room. This what was she had been needing. With everything that had happened; helping Sherlock fake his death, leaving England, being thrust back into the hunter world, she had needed to finally see the one person who had never let her down.

Dean rubbed his eyes then drew the woman back into another quick hug.

"Having a chick-flick moment there?" Molly asked, her voice thick with emotion even as she tried to hide it. Dean shoved her shoulder and she laughed.

"Shut up, tough girl."

Just then Dean noticed Sherlock sitting in the arm chair. His eyebrows raised and he glanced between Sherlock and Molly.

"Sherlock, aren't you supposed to be dead or something?"

Suddenly Ben spoke up over everyone.

"I _knew_ it!"

* * *

><p>"How did you figure it out?" Molly asked Ben. The five occupants of the house had moved themselves into the kitchen. Molly and Lisa sat at the table, Molly nursing a cup of weak tea while Lisa sipped a soda. Dean was leaning against the kitchen counter, a beer in one hand and the leftover half of a sandwhich in the other. Ben tried to copy his position, even holding his can of soda the same way. Sherlock stood on the other end of the kitchen as he leaned in the door frame. He was obviously not as comfortable with the…homeyness of the whole situation.<p>

"I wasn't sure at first, with the blonde hair and all. But it wasn't until Dean called him Sherlock that I was sure."

"Yeah, but you are from America. Most people in America have no idea who Sherlock is."

Ben shrugged slightly. He gave off an air of trying to act older than he actually was. It reminded Molly scarily of Dean.

"When Dean said I wasn't allowed to be a hunter"-Lisa and Dean shared a look at this comment-"I decided that if I couldn't hunt down monsters, I could try hunting down bad guys. And one day I was googling and I came upon Sherlock's website. It is so cool," he added. Molly shot an amused look at Sherlock. Sherlock's lips twitched slightly.

"Uh oh, the boy is googling in his room. Lisa, I think it is time for the talk," Dean joked. Molly laughed out loud while Ben turned bright red and punched Dean in the shoulder. Lisa scolded her son, but it was obvious her heart wasn't into it.

"Don't feel bad Ben. When we were growing up Dean used to make fun of me and Sam all the time."

At the mention of Sam's name Molly saw Dean's face fall slightly. She pressed her lips together, wishing her foot-in-mouth disease, along with her diarrhea of the mouth, would just go away. Molly noticed Lisa get up. She looked up in time to see Lisa wrap her arms around Dean's torso. Dean leaned down and pressed a deep kiss in her hair. Molly sat back in her chair, suddenly uncomfortable in the silence. She shut her eyes.

And then she felt it.

A hand on her shoulder.

Her eyes snapped open and she looked up quickly. Sherlock looked down at her, his icey blue/grey eyes staring down at her. He looked away almost as soon as she looked up at him. And then she did something that she had never thought she would have the courage to do.

She reached up and placed a soft hand on his very very gently. Her fingertips barely grazed his knuckles. But it was the softness, the gentleness, that mattered most. And the comfort. It was something that both of them needed.

"So, Sherlock Holmes, why aren't you dead?" Dean suddenly asked. Sherlock removed his hand from Molly's shoulder like he had been scorched. Molly forced herself to avoid looking hurt or disappointed. She did notice, however, the smirk growing on Dean's face.

"Are you asking how I managed to fake my death, or why I did it?" Sherlock asked curtly. Dean seemed to think for a moment before replying.

"Both."

Sherlock placed his hands behind his back and paced around the kitchen. Molly was suddenly transported back to the morgue in England. The look on his face; the set of his mouth, the concentration in his eyes, it all reminded of Sherlock when he would get into lecture/I'm-smarter-than-you-now-allow-me-to-prove-it mode.

"I chose to fake my death because of the threats laid upon those dearest to me; I had to die, or they would. Of course, I knew I couldn't _actually_ die, I only had to make Moriarty's associates believe I had died."

"Where does Molly come into this?" Dean asked, his attention firmly on Sherlock. He had his 'big-brother' face on. Molly remembered seeing it many time before when Sam was in trouble. Molly felt honored; he didn't pull out the face for just anyone.

"Moriarty knew that I was very close to Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson…and John. He threatened them. But he never considered Molly. I don't believe he considered she and I…_close_."

"I'm not surprised," Dean snapped. Molly glanced over sharply. Dean shrugged, giving her a look as though to say '_what_?'.

Sherlock glared slightly at Dean before continueing his pacing.

"I ask again, where does Molly come into this?"

"Dean, stop it. He asked for my help. He knew Moriarty wouldn't target me, and he also knew I could help him fake his death and give him a place to hide. And, with Moriarty back, I didn't really want to stay in England much longer."

"How is he back anyway? I thought he went to..." Dean trailed off, glancing down at Lisa and Ben. Molly caught on. She glanced up at Sherlock, who had turned to look at her as well. He seemed to be searching her face for…what? Molly wasn't sure.

Molly turned back to Dean. She took in the picture in front of her. It was Dean, but not just Dean. It was Dean and his new family. A possible wife. A possible son. The family that he had always wanted, but couldn't have. Because of Sam. Because of Molly.

Molly made a decision.

"We're not sure," she found herself saying.

"I talked to Crowley. He thinks…he thinks a demon might have let Moriarty out. He's investigating for us."

Dean snorted.

"I wouldn't trust that demon as far as I could throw him with my pinky. So what are you two doing now?"

Molly knew she couldn't lie in this aspect. Mainly because Dean had instantly noticed the cuts and lacerations on both Molly and Sherlock.

"We are hunting. Just little hunts here and there. This last one was supposed to be an easy one, but…well you know how it goes. Hope for the best, expect the worst."

Molly shrugged. Dean looked down at her uncertainly.

"Do you…I mean…do you need me to-"

"No Dean…we don't need you…I don't need you."

Molly felt a lump in her throat when she said that. Dean stared at her. She could see the hurt in his eyes after she had said that.

"I mean, c'mon Dean, you know I'm the tough girl," she added, trying to lighten up the atmosphere. Obviously he wasn't buying it. Molly tried to not meet his eyes. Or anyones for that matter.

Surprisingly it was Ben who broke the unwilling silence.

"So how _did_ you fake your death?" he asked Sherlock. Either he didn't sense the tension in the room, or he was used to breaking up tense situations. Probobly a little bit of both. Living with a hunter gave you those abilities.

Sherlock told them about Molly giving him a dosage of a rare venom she had gotten from a voodoo priest. It was a last resort if Sherlock couldn't weasel Moriarty into calling off the assassins. After he dosed himself he 'died', in a manner of speaking. In all actuality the venom slowed Sherlock's heart rate to an almost impossible rate. He hadn't jumped so much as fell from the roof. And while John was being distracted by the biker (one of Sherlock's homeless network), Castiel had caught Sherlock and, in nearly a split second, dropped him to the pavement. A blood pack that Molly had hidden in his hair had exploded on the pavement and have given the illusion of an extreme head wound. In all actuality, all Sherlock had acquired injury-wise, was a few bruises and a mild concussion from Castiel dropping him. Afterwards, the rest of the homeless network, in costume, carted Sherlock's 'body' back down to the morgue. Sherlock's brother took care of the rest of the details, like the death certificate and the 'autopsy'.

"Wow," Ben said. He had moved to sit across the table from Molly, who took over telling the story after Sherlock spoke of dosing himself with the venom. Molly grinned.

"Yeah, it was pretty ingenious. It was mostly Sherlock's idea, though."

"Not necessarily Molly. Don't forget, you were the one who thought of the venom. She knew that if John were able to get close enough, the first thing he would do as a doctor would be to check my pulse."

"Actually Sherlock, I told you the first thing he would do as a _friend_ would be to check your pulse."

Sherlock glanced behind his shoulder at Molly.

"So what are you going to do now?" Ben asked.

Molly shrugged.

"Probobly going to go back to Soiux Falls and wait for Bobby to send us out again."

"Is that really what you want?" Dean asked. Molly looked up at him.

"Do I really have a choice? This life chooses you. You don't choose it. And it doesn't like to let go."

* * *

><p>Sherlock and Molly bade the family a farewell, promising to visit again at some point. As Molly pulled out of the driveway she had a strange feeling; remorse. She wasn't sure if she would ever see Dean again.<p>

They drove west for almost two hours before Molly couldn't take the silence anymore.

"Aren't you going to ask why I didn't ask Dean to come with us?" she asked softly.

"I already know why," he said softly.

"Is it selfish of me? To be this jealous?"

Sherlock was silent.

"I don't believe it is selfish to want a family."

They lapsed into silence again. Molly had another thought.

"Are you…are you angry with me?"

Sherlock turned, surprise evident on his face.

"Angry with you? Why would I be angry with you?" he said very softly.

"Because…because I didn't ask Dean to help us. He's far more experienced than me. We could…we would probably have a better chance of surviving this if Dean were to help us."

Sherlock turned to look out the window. He pondered her words.

"You did what you thought best…and, if it had been me, I would have done the same. I would have done the same…to see someone I love be…happy."

Molly's eyes widened, then her eyelids lowered. A slight grin spread across her face.

"I guess, in the end, you and I are more alike than you think.

It was almost noon the next day when Molly and Sherlock pulled up to Bobby Singer's house. Molly glanced over at her sleeping passenger and smiled slightly. Sherlock had fallen asleep somewhere between 4 and 5 am, and hadn't woken up since. She reached over and gently shook his shoulder until his eyes opened slightly. Then she stepped out of the car and stretched her back. She heard the car door open and shut on the other side.

"How do you drive all night?" Sherlock asked as he stretched out his back. Molly put her arms on the roof of the car as she stretched out her calves.

"How do you think I pulled all nighters at the morgue, and then came in the next morning to deal with you?" she joked. She was still in a bit of a mood from the day before, and had actually stayed up most of the night driving and thinking. Luckily Sherlock had been asleep the couple of times she zoned out, otherwise he would probably be very mad at her.

Molly rubbed her tired eyes and yawned.

"Time for sleep," she muttered as she pushed herself off of the car. Sherlock went round to the trunk and pulled their bags out. Molly reached out to grasp hers, but Sherlock held it away from her.

"Get some sleep. I'll take care of this," he said softly. Molly smiled her thanks at him. As they made their way up to the porch she heard Sherlock stop.

"What's up?" she asked, turning around. She saw Sherlock looking at a strange, unfamiliar truck parked next to Bobby's truck.

"Nothing. Just…observing," he said. He turned back around and walked into the house. Molly stared at the truck a bit longer before following him.

Sherlock placed the bags in the foyer. He could hear voices coming from the study. He glanced back when he saw Molly walk in behind him. Together they walked into the study.

"Molly! I wasn't expecting you back so soon," Bobby said. Sherlock observed that he looked rather nervous, although he was doing a fairly good job at covering it up.

"Hi Uncle Bobby. Who is this?" Molly asked, gesturing to the other man sitting at Bobby's desk. He was tall and balding, with a fairly nice face if he would smile more often than not.

"Molly, Shea, I would like you two to meet Samuel Campbell," Bobby said hesitantly. Molly and Sherlock stared at the man. Then Molly strode forward with her arm outstretched.

"Hi, I'm Bobby's neice Molly Hooper. And this is my friend Shea McTavish."

Samuel smiled and shook her hand.

"You know, I feel like I've heard of you before. You wouldn't happen to know the Winchesters?" Molly asked when Samuel let go of her hand. The man laughed.

"It's like you said. She's observant to a fault," Samuel laughed, looking over Molly's head. Molly frowned and turned around.

She stopped breathing.

Her heart stopped beating.

And for just one moment the world stopped spinning. Everything became still.

"S-Sam?"


	7. The Head or the Heart

_I would just like to say before I begin that I am SOOO SORRY! I've been super busy these last few months; mainly with school. I was in my final couple of weeks of college and had about 8 essays that took precedence over all else. Again, very sorry. But I've finally graduated college so that is a plus._

_I am also getting married the first week of July, which has taken up quite a bit of my time (I'm basically doing a DIY wedding, so when I'm not working I'm hot gluing something to something else or hand writing my invitations)_

_Oh, and I won't forget to mention that the new Avengers movie has taken up quite a bit of my attention :P_

_But I promise, yet again, that I AM planning on getting this story done. It's become my baby and I really love writing it, life just has a tendency to take over. So have no fear, this will be done, just not in as short of a time as I was hoping for. But with Sherlock S.2 coming out in America on May 22 (FINALLY) I should have new inspiration. Anyway, that is my rant/apology._

_I would like to thank all of the people who have favorited, alerted, and, especially, reviewed my story. You are the reason I stay up until 4 am on a school night to work on this._

_This is also probably the longest chapter so far (another reason for the delay). I was thinking about breaking it into two parts but, with the number of weeks I've gone without an update, I thought I would be nice and give ya'll something good and long to enjoy. This chapter is a crucial emotional turning point, which is another reason why is it so long…_

_This chapter also deals with some pretty adult themes. Nothing to extreme, but there are moments. Just to be forewarned. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or Supernatural_

_Thanks: To Superwiki and IMDB, both of which gave me some excellent information. FYI the __**male**__ names (read the story to understand) are names of (some) of the producers of Supernatural , whilst the __**female**__ names are producers of Sherlock. Though that might be a fun little tidbit. ENJOY!_

* * *

><p>"Sam?" Molly repeated. She reached out and grasped Sherlock's arm. He glanced sharply down at her, but she wasn't paying him any attention. She felt like her head was spinning and she felt her knees go weak.<p>

Sam stepped forward, a wary smile on his face. He was exactly how she remembered him; big as a house, floppy hair all about, and those bright eyes that stared down at her.

"Hey Mol."

Molly's eyes widened even more. Sherlock looked back up at the man. The adults all stood in an uncomfortable, strangling silence. Samuel finally stepped forward, effectively breaking the silence.

"Bobby, what about that book you were going to show me?"

Bobby glanced around, then nodded.

"It's…upstairs."

Sherlock watched the two men go, then turned to look down at Molly. She was ghost white and the hand on his arm was tightening.

"Molly," Sherlock whispered, reaching up to loosen her grasp. Molly jumped and tore her eyes away from Sam. She looked down at Sherlock's arm and her clenched fingers and let go quickly.

"Sorry," she murmured.

"It's quite alright," he said. He looked back up at Sam, then pointed out the elephant in the room.

"Sam, it is nice to see you again. How did you get out of hell?"

Molly's jaw dropped before she turned and hit Sherlock's shoulder.

"Tact, Sherlock. It is called tact. Try it some time," she muttered, but the usual fire wasn't in it.

"It's okay Mol. I'm not sure how I got out of…how I got out of there. I don't remember anything up until a few months back when-"

"Wait…you've been back for a few months? Does Dean know?" Molly interrupted. Sam looked down in shame…or at least, it looked like shame. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and studied Sam.

"No, Dean doesn't know."

"Why not Sam Winchester?"

Sam flinched. Molly was using her…_mom_ _voice_.

"I went to him. I was…I was going to tell him. But then I saw him with Lisa and Ben. He's happy now Mol. He finally has the family he has always wanted. He finally got out Mol. You of all people know how hard that is."

Molly stared at Sam. Something in his voice…in the way he talked about Dean. It was bothering her. She shook her head, partly to deny what Sam had just said and partly to clear the thoughts out of her skull.

"No Sam, Dean would want to know that you are still alive. He just isn't…Dean, without you."

"It doesn't matter Molly. He's happy now. And I need you to promise me that you won't tell him."

Molly looked torn. She knew she couldn't _not_ tell Dean something this important, but she couldn't betray Sam. She didn't want to betray any of her boys.

Suddenly Sam stepped forward, a menacing presence in the small, crowded hallway. His sparkling eyes grew dark, and he seemed to grow slightly.

"Promise me Molly," he said. There was something…wrong here. Sherlock couldn't feel it. Molly could feel it. Sherlock reacted first.

He stepped between the two and placed a firm hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam glanced down at Sherlock's hand, but he didn't move away. He knew that if Sam wanted to he could level Sherlock with a swat. But Sherlock wasn't one to give up that easily, particularly when it came to someone who he…_cared_ about.

In that moment Sherlock realized that he did care about Molly. More than he cared for many people. She had somehow come to the same level as John and Mrs. Hudson in his mind.

"Sam, Molly has been driving all night. She's quite exhausted. Let her get some sleep. You two can talk when she wakes up."

Sam looked over Sherlock's head at Molly, then looked back down and nodded. Sherlock turned around, regretfully turning his back to Sam, and began to gently push Molly until she began to make her way up the stairs. They passed by a room where they heard hushed voices before they entered Molly's bedroom. Sherlock kept an eye on Molly as she moved to sit on the bed, and then fell back with a heavy thump. She really did look exhausted, but, more so, she looked distressed.

Sherlock turned away to pull off his coat. He laid it across the bed and began to unbutton the flannel he had decided to wear that morning (if, truth be told, he was starting to like the shirts…they _were_ quite a bit more comfortable than what he used to wear, especially during long road trips). He walked over to the window and pulled the heavy curtains so only a sliver of sunlight crossed Molly's bedspread. He heard Molly shuffling around behind him, two thumps as her boots hit the floor, then silence. He lay back on his own bed and pulled the dark green throw over his body.

He pondered over his revelation just a moment before. He discovered, surprisingly, that it didn't…bother him. When he had realized that he cared about John, about what John thought and felt, he had been wrought with self-loathing for at least an hour before he realized that it was un-productive to feel as such. But this time…this time it felt different. It also didn't feel as…destructive as when he realized that he had cared about Irene Adler.

It was all a jumbled mess. It was clouding his thought processes so much that he hadn't realized that Molly was saying his name.

"Sherlock?" he suddenly heard in the darkness.

"Yes?" he answered.

"I think…I think something is wrong," she whispered.

"Wrong?"

Silence reigned in the room again. Sherlock heard a deep intake of breath, then a deep sigh, before a small voice permeated the heavy silence in the dark room.

"With Sam. I think…I think something is wrong with Sam. I don't…I don't think I trust him as much…as I used too."

* * *

><p>Molly couldn't sleep. With each passing minute she lay wide awake. Her eyes were burning and her body was achy, but her mind was a blur and her heart was heavy.<p>

After almost two hours of lying on her bed she sat up. She could see a lump in the form of Sherlock on his foldaway, his breathing slow and steady. She sighed and pushed the covers away. She shivered when her feet touched the cold wood floor. She rubbed her bared arms, her tank top providing no warmth whatsoever. She suddenly noticed Sherlock's trademark pea coat illuminated in the moonlight.

She glanced at Sherlock to make sure he was asleep, then picked up the coat. She held the coat for a moment, then pulled it on quickly before she could change her mind. She suddenly remembered all of those times when she had seen him strut into the morgue, his coat giving him that forbidding, mysterious presence that Molly has so adored. She had always imagined wearing that coat, inhaling his essence.

Now she just pulled the coat around herself, relishing in the left over body heat.

She made her way out of the bedroom, padding past Bobby's bedroom and down the stairs. She didn't hear any voices coming from the study, and when she finally reached the bottom of the steps she was surprised to find the lights out. Her Uncle very rarely took an early night…unless he was drunk of course.

She turned on the lights of the kitchen and busied herself with making a cup of tea. She sighed deeply as she wrapped her hands around the mug, taking a quick sip of the hot liquid. She leaned against the counter and stared out the window, her face bathed in the moonlight.

She whipped around quickly when she heard footsteps in the kitchen, almost spilling tea on Sherlock's coat in the process.

Sam stood in the entryway. He walked in, his eyes locked on her the entire time. He circled the kitchen, opened the fridge to pull out a beer, then circled back to sit down at the table. Molly didn't move a muscle. She didn't know what to expect from this Sam.

"Molly?" Sam's voice reverberated throughout the entire kitchen, shaking Molly to the core.

"What?" she asked, trying to keep the quiver out of her voice.

"Do you remember when you first came to Bobby's?"

"Of course," she said, wondering where he was going with this.

"Do you remember how skittish you were? Cause I do. Here you were, this tiny, odd little thing with a funny accent."

Molly found herself smiling. Of course she remembered.

"I remember the first time Dean and I showed up after you moved here. You took one look at us and bolted up to your room. I remember dad saying you might make a good hunter cause you sure as hell could run fast."

Molly laughed slightly. Sam smiled and took a drink of his beer.

"Do you know what Bobby told us after that?"

"No," Molly said softly.

"He told Dean and I that you had been through something pretty traumatic, what with seeing your parents die and your grandfather abusing you. That you wouldn't always bee this skittish. Bobby told us that going through something that traumatic, that life altering, can change a person. Can make a person act different."

Molly froze. She bit her lip. She turned away from Sam's accusing eyes.

"He told us that we just had to try to understand and wait until you felt better. Do you remember what happened next?"

Molly nodded, tears pricking her eyes.

"I remember. You came into my room…and you gave me a stuffed cat. And you asked if we could be friends."

Molly bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. One tear slowly trailed its way down her cheek.

"I _died_ Molly."

Molly's eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat for a moment. She clenched her chest, above her heart.

"I know."

"I dove into a pit into hell and I _died_. I think I deserve a little bit of leeway in that aspect."

"I know," Molly whispered. She hadn't thought about it that way. She hadn't realized that the trauma that Sam had gone through would change him.

"I mean, I know that I'm acting weird, but-"

"No Sam…it's alright."

Molly sat down across from Sam at the table. Then she reached out and took his hand.

"I am…so sorry Sammy. I don't know what came over me."

Sam smiled and patted her hand.

"It's alright Molly. We all make mistakes."

* * *

><p><em>Darkness permeated the deepest recesses of Sherlock's mind. He couldn't feel or touch anything, for there was nothing. <em>

_And then…then there was a pair of stairs in front of him. Sherlock stared at the flight of stairs in confusion. He stepped forward onto the first stair. Suddenly a hand rail appeared. He placed his hand delicately upon the railing._

_With each step more and more of his surroundings came into view. And with each step he came to realize where he was._

_It was the stairwell from 221B Baker Street._

_He finally came to a stop at an all too familiar door. He raised a hand and took the doorknob slowly. The door opened without a sound._

_Sherlock looked around the room. It was almost exactly as he remembered. It even _smelled_ like his old flat; a mixture of ink, chemicals, and some sort of lemon cleaner that Mrs. Hudson liked to use when she would _not_ act as his housekeeper. Underneath that, though, there was something new. Something foreign. _

_Suddenly a cry sounded out, causing Sherlock to jump._

"_Hello? Is anyone there? John?" Sherlock called out. Another cry was the only response. Sherlock turned towards the sound of the crying. He stopped in front of his bedroom door. He pushed gently and the door flew open._

_His eyes widened in shock and trepidation at what he saw._

_It couldn't be._

_It couldn't…_

Sherlock sat up in the bed quickly. He closed his eyes and grasped at the tendrils of the strange, disturbing dream, but it was soon completely out of mind. Sherlock turned to sit up and rubbed his eyes. He shivered slightly from the cold draft in the room. He reached over to grab his jacket, but he couldn't find it. He glanced around his bed, felt underneath it, and finally decided that someone must have taken his jacket.

He stood up slowly, stretching out his back and trying to work the kinks out that had settled into his muscles during the long car trips. He opened the door and quietly made his way down the stairs, wincing when he stepped on a squeaky step.

As he reached the foot of the stairs he heard voices, one male and one female, echoing from the kitchen. His eyebrows furrowed when he heard the female voice laughing. He instantly knew who it was from the laughter.

He stepped into the light of the kitchen just in time to see Sam hold Molly's knuckle to his lips. Suddenly Molly spotted him. She smiled and stood up, pulling _his_ coat around her frame.

"Sherlock, what are you doing up?" she asked. Sherlock didn't answer, just looked past her to rest wary eyes on Sam. Molly followed his gaze, then looked back up at Sherlock.

"Sherlock-"

"Why are you wearing my coat?" he was staring down at her again. Molly rolled her eyes and took off the coat, holding it out to the man.

"It's…it's alright-" he began to say, but Molly shook her head.

"No, it's fine. I'm not that cold anymore," she said, an icy chill edging her words. Sherlock took his coat and pulled it on, noticing that it smelled faintly of Molly. His eyebrows furrowed again at this revelation…or more to the fact, why he _cared_ about such a trivial fact.

Sherlock continued standing, lost in his own thoughts, when the scraping of a chair snapped him back to reality. He looked over to see Molly sitting back down across from Sam, while Sam was _glaring _pointedly at Sherlock.

"Molly?"

"Hm?" Molly mumbled as she took a sip of her now cool tea.

"May I speak to you for a moment? In the study, perhaps?"

Molly raised an eyebrow, then glanced over at Sam. Sam shrugged.

"Doesn't bother me none," he said before tilting his head back and finishing his beer in just a few swift gulps. Molly shook her head, a smile on her face, before she stood up and followed Sherlock out of the kitchen. Once they were alone Molly grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and spun him around to face her. Her smile was non-existent.

"What was that all about?" she hissed. Sherlock shrugged off her hand.

"I thought you said you didn't trust him, yet here you are, sitting alone in the same room as him. A man you do not trust, who threatened you yest-"

"Oh Jesus Christ Sherlock, he wasn't threatening me. We talked about it. He is just really worried that Dean will find out he is still alive. He _really _doesn't want Dean to find out."

"Why did you say yester-"

"Yes, Sherlock, something _is_ wrong with him. _He went to hell_. You are a helluva lot smarter than me, you should have been able to tell. It's like…PTSD, or something. Like what John had."

"John never threatened to hurt someone he cares about."

"Sam wasn't threatening me!"

"And his body language said otherwise! Maybe if you thought with your head instead of your heart you would see that there is something far more wrong with him then simple PTSD!"

By this point the two were nearly screaming at each other. They were loud enough to rouse every occupant in the house, and maybe the house next over.

"Are you calling me stupid!"

"Honestly, yes! You are always so…_emotion_ driven, you become blinded! If you would actually act logical for once in your life you-

Sam suddenly walked into the study, a mild look of alarm on his face. He had (obviously) heard the entire conversation. A red faced Sherlock suddenly noticed the man, cutting off in midsentence. He ignored Molly's yelling to walk over to the man.

"Shut up for a moment Molly, would you?"

Molly shut her mouth, but her body shook with anger. She watched as Sherlock studied a nearly impassive Sam. Then he stepped back with a nod as his face turned back to normal color.

"What are you looking at?" Sam asked hesitantly. Sherlock steepled his fingers and glanced between Sam and Molly, who had gone silent.

"You…Sam, do you love Molly?" Sherlock asked. Sam stepped back, his eyebrows rising into his hairline.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean do you love Molly? It only requires a simple yes or no answer. Even someone as…Cro-Magnon as you should understand."

"_Sherlock_," Molly hissed through her teeth. Her face was beginning to redden with anger and embarrassment.

"Yes, of course I love Molly," Sam said. Sherlock stared at the man a moment longer, then shook his head.

"No you don't. You don't love her."

Molly's jaw dropped. Sam crossed his arms.

"Of course I do. She's like a sister to me."

Sherlock waved his hand in the air.

"Of course, you say that. It is easy to say you love someone. It is entirely different to mean it."

Sam uncrossed his arms and stared at Sherlock incredulously. Sherlock sighed deeply and placed his fingertips against his forehead. When he was done being dramatic he glanced over at Molly, who was sharing the same look as Sam.

"It is quite simple. I can say I love you Molly, but I obviously don't mean it."

Molly's eyes widened and, deep down, she felt something crack and break inside. She would be the first to deny that she still held a flame for Sherlock. Yes, it wasn't quite as…vibrant, as it used to be. But it was still there.

Until now.

Molly realized at that moment that Sherlock didn't want her to help him because he cared about her and wanted to spend the time with her. It was because she was convenient. She was a means to an end. And she knew that when all was said and done Sherlock would go back to John, to his old life, and she would become nothing but a memory.

At that same moment, however, Sherlock felt a rise of emotion inside of him as he said that. Saying…saying love. Saying that he loved someone. Yes, it was easy to say he loved John, but it wasn't a romantic notion. It was more of a friendship, almost brotherly, love. But saying that he loved Molly…it hit him at the core of something that he was afraid to confront. Instead he turned his back to his emotions and focused on his logic, as he had always done in the past.

"Sam, I believe that you are a sociopath," Sherlock said simply. Molly was shocked out of her musing by this proclamation. She scoffed in disbelief.

"You are joking Sherlock. Sam, a sociopath? He's one of the most emotional people I know. That's why Dean used to call him a girl-"

"Ah, another good example. The Sam I met almost a year ago had nothing but loyalty to his brother. It was obvious in his gestures, in the way he spoke to his brother. Now when he speaks of his brother he holds nothing. There is no emotion, no love…nothing. Come now Molly, even you are not stupid enough to not see this. Sam is nothing but a shell now! He is-"

Whatever Sam was they weren't going to know. At that moment Sherlock felt a hard blow strike his right cheek. He wasn't expecting the blow, so wasn't prepared, which ended up with him crashing into Bobby's desk before he fell to the floor. He clutched his cheek and checked his teeth with his tongue. Thankfully nothing was broken, and there wasn't any blood.

Sherlock glanced up through a haze of pain and falling papers to see, not Sam, but Molly standing in front of him, her fists clenched and her face pale.

"Molly, what-"

"_Enough_ Sherlock. Please…enough," she sighed. She looked…exhausted. Worn down. And, especially, emotionally drained. She surprised Sherlock, however, when she walked up and held out a hand. Sherlock glared up at her before smacking her hand away and pulling himself up. She didn't act surprised.

Bobby entered the study just as Sherlock felt steady enough to let go of the desk.

"What the _hell_ is going on here?" he asked, looking around at the adults in the room.

"Nothing, Uncle Bobby. It's…been taken care of," Molly said, her eyes not leaving Sherlock.

"Taken care of my ass," Bobby started, but a sharp glance from Molly made him stop. Only Molly could make Bobby stop before he went off on one of his rants. She turned back to Sherlock.

"Sherlock…look, I'm not sorry for what I did. You went _way_ too far."

Sherlock didn't say anything. Molly sighed.

"Sherlock…I'm leaving,"

Sherlock looked up in surprise.

"What?" he asked.

"Not…not forever, obviously. I…Sam was telling me about a hunt that he and Samuel are going on after they leave here. A succubus in Arizona. I was going to have you come along but…but I think we need some time apart. You can stay here with Bobby until I get back. And then we'll…we'll resolve the Moriarty thing. We'll get it done, and then…then you can go back to your old life."

Sherlock stared at Molly. He couldn't believe what she was saying. He didn't understand.

"Molly-"

"Look, sometimes hunters who work together get tired of each other's company Sherlock," Sam said. "It used to happen to Dean and I all the time."

Sherlock stared between the two of them, then stood up straighter, his face emotionless.

"Fine. Go on your hunt," Sherlock said briskly. Then, as he used to do in the days before his world came crashing down, Sherlock stuck up his nose and turned on his heel. He made his way up the stairs and into one of the vacant rooms.

Molly watched him go and then sighed again.

"Well, he handled that well," she said softly. Bobby and Sam stared at her.

"That was handling it well?" Bobby asked.

"Trust me," was all Molly said, before she followed Sherlock's path up the stairs to pack some of her things.

* * *

><p>Sherlock stared out of the window of the dimly lit storage room. He stood amongst dust covered books and swore that he had tripped over a broken crossbow when he entered the room. At least, he hoped it had already been broken.<p>

He watched as Samuel and Sam walked out of the house first and out to the truck. Sam placed a couple of bags into the back of the truck while he said something to Samuel. Suddenly Molly ran out to the truck with Bobby following close behind. She threw her bag into the truck and then turned to give Bobby a hug. Sherlock watched them with sharp eyes as Bobby pulled away, patted the girl on the head, and then turned to reenter the house. Molly waved one last time and yelled something before Samuel opened the door for her to get into the front seat of the old truck. Sherlock was about to turn away when he noticed something that sent a sharp wave of unease through his gut.

Sam was staring at Sherlock.

Sherlock stared back.

Sam didn't back down. Instead, he smiled. It wasn't the kind smile that Sherlock remembered the man having. It was sinister, menacing.

It was a Devils smile.

Just as it had begun the entire situation was over. Sam turned around and jumped into the truck next to Molly, and then Samuel put the truck in gear and they took off.

Sherlock stood staring out the window at nothing but the gravel drive way. He ignored the footsteps coming up the stairs until they got a bit closer. He turned just as Bobby entered the rarely used room.

"You okay?" Bobby asked. Sherlock contemplated the question for a moment.

"I'm fine," he said, not looking Bobby in the face.

"Hmph…well I'm going into town. Need anything?"

Sherlock shook his head. In a moment of weakness (at least, he felt it as weakness) he ran his hand through his hair in frustration. When he pulled his hand away he grimaced at the blond-with-dark-roots tresses that were tangled around his fingers. He huffed under his breath and flicked his hand to get rid of the blonde hair.

"Uh…" Bobby just mumbled as the tall man pushed past him and into Molly's bedroom. The door slammed behind him. Bobby shook his head and sighed.

It wasn't even an hour later when Bobby opened the door and threw a bag onto Sherlock's foldaway.

"When you are done come on downstairs. And don't stain the tub."

Sherlock watched the man go before he opened the bag. With a raised eyebrow and a pleased gleam in his eye he looked down at the box of hair dye.

* * *

><p>Sherlock felt…more Sherlock all of a sudden. He knew that hair color shouldn't affect him like it was, but he couldn't help it. He finally felt more like himself, like how he used to feel before all of this madness started happening.<p>

He made his way down the stairs, his hair still shiny and wet from the shower. He entered the study to see Bobby sitting at his desk as he flipped through some books. Sherlock made to grab a book and help out when Bobby placed his hand on the book putting it back down. He gestured for Sherlock to sit down in the chair across from his desk. Sherlock was suddenly reminded of his days in primary school when he was sent to the headmaster for some silly reason or another (honestly, he didn't know that they _weren't_ planning on dissecting the frog…don't hand a child a frog if you don't expect him to dissect it…although, honestly, using his pencil _was_ a bit morbid).

"Sherlock, I hate playing a therapist," Bobby said, his eyes not leaving the papers on his desk. Sherlock knew this was a tactic to avoid making the situation more awkward than it already was.

"Obviously," Sherlock said.

"But this whole thing between you and Molly…well, it's gettin' on my last nerve."

"I can assure you there is no…_thing_ between Miss Hooper and I," Sherlock scoffed. Bobby rolled his eyes.

"See, that right there. That is the _thing_."

Sherlock scoffed and walked over to pick up a book off of the pile on Bobby's desk. He tried to ignore the poignant stare that Bobby had leveled at his newly-darkened head.

"Bobby-" Sherlock began, his voice snappish and annoyed.

"Do you love her?" the older man suddenly asked.

Sherlock stopped, his fingertips resting on top of a large, dusty tome. His eyes widened and he felt suddenly…blank. Like his mind, in that very moment, had no answer to the question. No quickie remark or snappish comeback.

Love

The very word…frightened Sherlock. He had seen love ruin even the strongest man. It had very nearly ruined himself, as it was. Although…it hadn't been real, that time. With…The Woman.

No…no, Sherlock though. It can't be love. Love is…a stupid emotion. Useless. Makes people do…stupid things. Makes people useless and nonsensical.

And yet, there was that feeling. In his stomach, when she looked at him. When she laughed. No, she was not the most beautiful woman on the planet. She was quite…plain. And she wasn't the smartest, especially compared to Sherlock. But she had that thing. That quality that made her so…

She was strong. So much stronger than any person Sherlock had ever known. It wasn't physical strength. It was the strength in her heart. And it made her the most gorgeous creature…

All of these thoughts bombarded Sherlock suddenly. He pulled his hand back and dropped it to his side. He saw Bobby smirk and sit back. Sherlock looked the elder man in the eyes.

"What do I do now?" Sherlock asked. Bobby raised an eyebrow.

"Haven't you never been in love before?"

"No. I thought, once, but she was…no, it wasn't like this."

"Like this?"

Sherlock sat down in the chair in front of Bobby's desk. He lowered his head and looked down at his hands. He grimaced at the dirt that had begun to gather under his fingernails. He began to methodically pick at them.

"Sherlock, what did you mean like this?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock snapped, his voice getting louder.

"That girl…that _woman_…she drives me mad. She is insufferable, and some days I think it would be easier to go hunt down Moriarty without her! She is always so…kind, and caring, and she gets me to tell her things that not even John knows! How does she do it?"

Bobby smirked at Sherlock, ignoring the fact that the man had just screamed at him.

"Sherlock Holmes…you are in love."

* * *

><p>Molly sat uncomfortably between the two Sam's. The elder, Samuel, drove the truck whilst the younger, Sam, stared out the window.<p>

"So, um, where in Arizona are we going?" Molly asked, glancing between the two hunters nervously. Samuel glanced around her to lock eyes with Sam, then sat back.

"It's called Paradise Valley. Christian's been following some reports of some male bodies being found throughout the city."

"How do you know it's a succubus?"

"Each of the bodies had been at a bar the night before. Witnesses saw them leave with a brunette woman the night before their bodies were found."

"Where were the bodies found?"

"In bed, which is fairly typical of a succubus-"

"Yeah the succubus attacks in dreams. So if she takes the man home, sleeps with him, and waits for him to pass out…well, they are fair game."

"That's what we figured. Plus, the latest body was found by his wife, who insisted that he would never have cheated on her. He was out for the night with some friends after work. While I'd usually say that any man can be seduced, with the knowledge that he was found completely drained of life the next morning… well, you can make your own assumptions."

Molly grimaced at the thought, then turned to glance at Sam.

"You okay?" she asked the man. He seemed to be deep in thought. The look on his face reminded her of Sherlock a little bit. She suddenly felt a stab of remorse through her chest. She felt so…guilty, for being so mean to Sherlock earlier.

"Yeah, I'm fine. You?" Sam said, interrupting her thoughts. Molly shrugged.

"Fine."

Sam smirked and continued looking out the window.

"No you aren't," he said unexpectedly. Molly frowned.

"Why do you say that?" she asked. She noted that Samuel was paying extreme attention to the road. He was like Bobby; he hated being dragged into dramatic situations like this. It was easier to feign ignorance, or deafness (which had happened when Molly's first boyfriend dumped her…he seriously had her convinced for two days that he was deaf just so he wouldn't have to talk about emotions).

"I saw the look on your face when he started saying all of that crap back at Bobby's. Like someone stomped on your puppy."

Molly shrugged again, but she was far from feeling nonchalant. Everything inside of her felt twisted. She almost began wishing for the simpler life she had back at the morgue, before Sherlock had intruded and messed everything up.

"Okay, if you don't want to talk about it," Sam said softly. Molly nodded. The rest of the trip was silent after that. It didn't take them long with Samuel speeding down the back roads before they were in Paradise Springs, Arizona just as the sun was setting. They pulled up to a dinky little inn. Only a couple of cars were parked outside of it, and the whole building had a couple layers of dirt caking the outer walls.

The Hunter's office.

Samuel led the two to room 23. When he opened the door Molly noticed two others in the room.

"Molly, this is Christian and Mark. They are going to help us."

Molly nodded to the two men. She suddenly realized that she was the only female out of the entire group. A shiver of alarm twined around her spine.

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat on the porch staring out at the dark sky, the stars bright and vibrant even though there was no moon in the sky. He was holding a beer in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. Apparently Bobby was nearly as good at reading people as Sherlock was, and had bought the cigarettes when he had bought the hair dye. Unfortunately he wasn't so good to know that Sherlock didn't smoke menthols.<p>

Sherlock inhaled the acrid smoke from the cigarette before exhaling heavily. He rested the back of his hand on his forehead, trying to make sense of everything.

Sherlock had never been one for balancing out emotion and logic. He had always just chosen one over the other, the pertinent being his logic. But now…now he didn't know how to feel.

* * *

><p>Molly leaned against the railing outside of the hotel room. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She stared up at the stars, wondering about Sherlock.<p>

"It hurt you, didn't it?"

Molly whipped around to see Samuel standing behind her. He held out a beer, which she took gratefully.

"What hurt me?" she asked, taking a swig.

"I was upstairs when you and that Sherlock-guy were arguing. It hurt, when he said he didn't love you. Didn't it?"

Molly turned her back to the man and continued to look up at the sky. She felt Samuel lean against the rail next to her. They stood in silence for a good long while before Molly finally worked up enough courage to speak.

"Yeah…yeah it hurt."

Samuel nodded and gestured for her to continue.

"I just…don't know why it hurt so badly. I mean, I used to have a huge crush on him, but now…"

Molly stopped and took another long swig of beer. When she lowered her hand she saw Samuel staring pointedly at her.

"What?" she asked, her eyes widening.

"You don't know?

"Know what?"

"Know why you are feeling the way you are feeling?"

Molly raised an eyebrow. Samuel laughed and finished off his beer.

"Can I tell you a little story?" he suddenly asked, setting his empty beer bottle on the ground.

"Do I get a choice?" Molly asked, humor evident in her voice. Samuel laughed again.

"No, I s'pose not. I met my wife, and the boy's grandmother, when I was just a young man. Barely out of my teens and already sporting a pretty decent repertoire in the hunting world, if I do say so myself (Molly scoffed teasingly at this comment). She was just a year or so younger than me. Her brother was a hunter, and he and I were working together on a job. That's how we ended up meeting the first time."

"Let me guess," Molly interrupted. "It was love at first sight?"

"Are you kidding. She hated me. And I hated her right back. She thought I was arrogant and selfish. I thought she was a goody-goody and a know-it-all. She didn't have much in the way of hunting skills, but damn was she smart. And she liked to prove it too. She always had this…smirk that she shot at me when she knew she was right and I was wrong."

Molly laughed.

"Yeah, Sherlock has the same thing. It's so…infuriating."

"Exactly! The woman drove me crazy. And, of course, she hated my ass. Every time we ran into each other on a job she and I would butt heads like no other."

Samuel got this dreamy look on his face.

"Then, one day about four years after we had met, we found ourselves on the same hunt together. At first it was like hell. She kept rubbing her smarts in my face, and I kept proving to her that I was a better marksman. It became a competition."

Samuel went silent suddenly, lost in the memories. Molly stared at the man.

"What…what happened then?" she asked softly. Samuel continued staring out into space, but he began to speak again in a soft voice.

"We found ourselves in a bad spot. A couple of poltergeists, altogether in one house. I didn't know what the hell to do, how to fight them. She wasn't able to fight them. And then…suddenly we were depending on each other. We had each other's backs. And it just felt so…right."

Molly suddenly thought back to her most recent hunt. Sherlock's first hunt.

She thought back to the moment in the bedroom, when the ghost of the little girl was attacking her. Sherlock saved her life. He barged in without a second thought and saved her. And then she saved him.

They had each other's backs.

"After that," Samuel said, making Molly jump slightly. "It was like…everything changed between Deanna and I. She and I worked together. We got married and we had a beautiful little girl. It was…perfect."

"Perfect?" Molly asked hesitantly.

"Perfect…until the demon came."

Samuel shook his head and sighed heavily. He pushed himself away from the wall and bent down to pick up his beer.

"Just remember Molly," Samuel said as he stood back up.

"Sometimes that person that drives you crazy…is the perfect person for you."

Samuel turned away from Molly and made his way back into the hotel room. Molly watched him go, then sighed and went back to staring up at the sky.

* * *

><p>"That girl makes me crazy!" Sherlock said, pacing back and forth in the kitchen. Bobby looked on, his annoyance showing at the fact that he hadn't been able to go to bed yet. Bobby glanced at the clock and huffed.<p>

"Sherlock, it is four a.m. Can't we do this after we wake up?"

"No, I wouldn't sleep. No no no, this time is perfect. Night is perfect for thinking. There aren't as many distractions. I need to think."

Bobby sighed and leaned heavily into his hand. Around 10 pm Sherlock had come up with a way to prove that he couldn't be in love with Molly. He was trying to bring up reasons why he wasn't in love, and Bobby was putting him down at every turn. Sherlock was getting very annoyed.

He had never met someone who could match wits with him. Especially someone who didn't look like he would be so smart.

Finally Sherlock dropped himself into the chair across from Bobby, his fifth beer making its way into his hand (which was more than likely part of the reason he was acting so…odd).

"Sherlock, why are you so blind to all of this?"

"Because…I don't want to be in love," Sherlock finally said. Bobby sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. Sherlock noticed the look on his face and sighed.

"You wouldn't understand."

"Oh, I wouldn't would I? It's not like I had to gank my own wife when she got possessed!"

"_Exactly_! Love makes people crazy!" Sherlock hollered. Bobby sighed heavily.

"Maybe so, but goddammit the time I spent with that woman I was never happier. She gave me something that I couldn't get from anyone else."

"Sex?" Sherlock asked.

"Love. Compassion. Affection. Sex was just an added plus. Karen…she was my soul mate," Bobby finished softly. Sherlock stared at the man in surprise. Bobby was not one of those men who spoke in such a…poetic way.

"But…you killed her."

Bobby nodded sadly.

"Yes, I did. And it changed me more than anything in my life."

"More than the abuse as a child?"

Bobby shot Sherlock a sharp look. Sherlock backed off (something he probably wouldn't have done if the beer wasn't effecting his judgment…as it were, he knew that Bobby could probably kill him with more ease than Moriarty would have).

"As it is, _Sherlock_, you need to grasp onto this. Because, if you don't, you may lose something that you sure as hell don't want to lose."

"Love?"

Bobby nodded.

"Love."

* * *

><p>Molly sat at the small hotel room table next to Christian. They were looking on a computer. Molly was typing things into the server while Christian glanced over her shoulder then down at the sheaf of papers in his hand.<p>

"So I hear Samuel gave you a lecture," Christian said, not looking up from the papers in his hand.

"Yup," Molly said. She had come to like Christian, even though he was a bit gruff, but she wasn't willing to talk to this strange man about her personal life..

"Well, take his words to heart. It's usually pretty…rare, to even get a couple of words out of that man. Not since he got back."

"Back?" Molly asked, turning away from her computer to glance questioningly at Christian.

"Yeah. Apparently whatever brought back Sam also brought back Samuel. We're not all sure why, but I don't question. I just hunt."

Molly nodded. They went back to working in silence.

"So are all the Campbell's males? No girls in the family?" Molly teased. Christian shook his head.

"Naw, there is Gwen. She's another cousin. And my wife Arlene, of course."

"Oh, you are married?"

"Yup. You?"

"Oh no no no. I…I don't think I'll ever get married," Molly answered, hating how sad she sounded.

"Yeah…being in a life like this makes it hard to have a normal relationship."

Molly nodded in agreement. They went silent again.

"So if your wife a hunter?" Molly asked, her curiosity getting the best of her.

"Nah, she stays behind. She doesn't like the idea, but she knows that it has to get done. Gwen is a hunter though."

"Oh? Why isn't she here?"

"Well isn't it obvious? We couldn't-"

Suddenly Sam, who had been sitting on one of the beds silently cleaning his gun, stood up and strode over.

"What have you two found?"

Molly glanced up in surprise. Christian raised an eyebrow at the man. Molly turned back to her computer.

"Honestly, not a lot."

Christian picked up a piece of paper and held it out to Sam.

"All we do know is that all of the victims were at a local bar called The Jade Bar before they were found dead the next morning."

Sam nodded. Molly turned back to the computer.

"You know, it's kind of weird though…I typed in the names of the men you told me about, but I couldn't find any records of them," she said, typing in some things in the computer. She didn't notice the look that Christian and Sam shared.

"Well, just keep looking. In the morning," Sam added, noticing the yawn that Molly tried to cover up. She smiled up at Sam, her best friend and very nearly her brother. He grabbed her shoulder and smiled back.

Molly started. His smile…it didn't reach his eyes. Not like it used too.

Another effect of his time spent in hell, she thought as she stood up from the desk. Sam walked out of the room with her and into the other room that was being rented. She had her own room while Sam and Christian shared one and Samuel and Mark shared the other.

"Night Molly," Sam said.

* * *

><p>The next morning Sherlock sat up with a start. He had, yet again, fallen asleep in the study with a book in his hand. He sat up from the chair and stretched his back, grimacing in pain at the stiffness. He felt the beginnings of a hangover-induced migraine and bemoaned the amount of alcohol he had consumed the night before.<p>

"Morning," he heard Bobby's gruff voice say from the doorway. Sherlock looked up to see Bobby holding out a cup of coffee. He accepted it gratefully and took a sip. It was black. He grimaced at the bitter taste.

"Something wrong?" Bobby asked as he walked over to a stack of books while he took deep drags from his coffee.

"Nothing. Just a bit strong," Sherlock muttered.

"Lemme guess, only Molly knows how you like your coffee?" Bobby asked in a teasing voice. Sherlock glanced up at Bobby with a glare.

"And John," he muttered. Bobby let out a huff that was probably supposed to be a laugh.

"So what are you gonna do today?" Bobby asked. Sherlock stood up from the chair and stretched his back.

"Research," he said matter-of-factly.

* * *

><p>Molly dried her hair while she took small bites from the hotel-offered-slightly-stale bagel with sticky cream cheese. She was looking through some newspaper articles, particularly the obituaries, but she still couldn't find the names that Sam had given her.<p>

Something was niggling deep inside. Something that she couldn't explain.

She typed the four names into Google, hoping for better luck.

**Todd Aronauer**

**Erik Kripke**

**Jerry Wanek**

**Ben Edlund**

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Molly sighed and closed the laptop. This was starting to get weird. She jumped slightly when she heard a knock on the door.

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat at the dusty computer which was, obviously, very rarely if ever used. He had his fingers steepled in front of his face. He sighed and typed in a few words into a search engine, then backspaced. He, honestly, had no idea where to start.<p>

"Having problems?" Bobby asked. Sherlock shut his eyes and sighed.

"Don't you have anything else better to do rather than bother me?"

Instead of getting offended and going away like John used too, Bobby just smiled and shook his head. Now Sherlock understood where Molly got her stubborn, pig-headed-ness from.

"What are you having problems with?" Bobby asked again. Sherlock's eyes turned to glare at Bobby while the rest of his body stayed still. With a deep sigh he placed his fingers on the keyboard.

"I am trying to figure out Moriarty's next move," Sherlock said.

"You won't find that on any computer," Bobby said. Sherlock glared at him again.

"I know that. I'm thinking about looking for strange disappearances and the like."

"Well, I wouldn't be the one to talk to about that. Molly was always better with the computer…stuff. I'm a book man myself."

Sherlock nodded and typed something else into the search engine. Then he sat back with a contemplative look on his face. He was so absorbed in his thoughts he didn't hear Bobby move to stand behind him until the man was reading over his shoulder. Sherlock jumped slightly and cursed the hunter's uncanny ability to sneak up even on ever (usually) observant Sherlock.

"Just do it," he heard Bobby whisper before he turned away from Sherlock and left the room. Sherlock looked after him, then back down at the computer.

**Strange deaths in Paradise Valley, Arizona**

* * *

><p>Molly frowned as Sam and Mark walked into the room. She was leaning in the chair, her face livid as the two men stared guiltily at her.<p>

"So why did you tell me that you guys were going out to speak to the families of the victims?" she asked, her voice calm even though her demeanor said otherwise. Mark cleared his throat and stepped back, letting Sam to take the fall for this.

"Look, Mol, I didn't think you would be all to interested."

"Sam Winchester, I have been stuck in this hotel for _two days_! I'm crawling up the walls!" she yelled at the man. He flinched slightly at her tone. Samuel and Christian suddenly entered the room. Christian turned to Sam.

"She reading you the riot act too?" he stage whispered. Sam nodded. Earlier that day, while Molly was still in her room researching, the four men had gone out to speak with the families. They had…_neglected_ to tell her.

Sam rubbed the back of his neck while Molly glared daggers at him.

"You know, Molly, I may actually have something you can do," he finally said. Samuel shot a sharp look at Sam, but he just ignored it.

"Really? What's that?" she asked.

"Well, we can't go to the Jade Bar because we are males. But you aren't," he said.

"Yeah, I kind of knew that," she said sarcastically.

"Well, I'm just thinking. We need someone to recon at the Jade Bar. Just for an evening or two. Just to see if we have a pattern."

"Oh," Molly said, the reason dawning upon her. Molly turned her head away to glance at her computer, missing the not-so-nice smile that Sam sent her way.

"Yeah…yeah okay I could do that," she said after a moment of thought. Samuel sighed from behind Molly and shook his head sadly.

* * *

><p>Sherlock stared in the confusion at the information in front of him. He kept looking down at the list of names that Bobby had given him (that he had received from Sam), and it just wasn't making sense.<p>

"Bobby?" Sherlock asked. Bobby, who had been browsing through a book for his friend 'Rufus,' looked up.

"What?"

"A succubus, it only attack males, correct?"

Bobby sat back and nodded. Sherlock frowned and looked back down at the information on the computer.

"And what is it called if it attacks…females?" he asked hesitantly, almost afraid of the answer.

"Wha…why do you ask?" Bobby asked, standing up slowly. Something was amiss. Sherlock beckoned Bobby over.

"I began to look up suspicious deaths in the city and I found a couple. The thing is, none of these deaths are on this list. In fact, none of these mysterious deaths are…male."

Sherlock hit a few buttons and the two men stared at the screen.

**Sue Vertue**

**Rebecca Eaton**

**Bethan Jones**

**Kathy Nettleship**

Each of the women had been found in their beds completely drained of life. Two had been found by friends or landlords, one by her husband, and the other by her wife.

Bobby looked up from the screen.

"Something…something doesn't feel right," Bobby said. Sherlock nodded, his lips pressed against his steepled fingers.

"Bobby, may I ask you something?"

"What?"

"If a person weren't in their right mind do you think they would endanger someone they love for a cause that they thought was right?"

"What do you mean?"

"Would one sacrifice one, even one they loved, to save many?"

"If they were in their right mind, I think they might. But if they weren't…if they were, say, a sociopath or the like, they might do that."

Sherlock suddenly looked up at Bobby.

"Bobby, I need to use your phone."

"Why?" he asked. Sherlock stared back down at the screen.

"I need to make a call."

* * *

><p>Molly paced in her room, glancing at the clock every so often. She couldn't even <em>start<em> getting ready for another couple of hours, but she could feel the tension building. She knew that a succubus wouldn't attack her, but that didn't stop her from feeling nervous.

Suddenly the door opened and Christian walked in. He was holding a dress in one arm and a pair of high heels in the other. Molly smiled thankfully at him.

"Hope they are the right size," he muttered. Molly took them from him and nodded. She put them on her bed and turned around, surprised to see that the man was still standing in her doorway.

"You know, you don't have to do this," he said softly. Molly stared at him in confusion.

"Of course I do. It's no big deal. If it helps us."

"Right…if it helps us."

* * *

><p>Sherlock threw some shirts into a bag before he hastily threw on his coat. Bobby stomped up the stairs and held out a very large dagger. Sherlock stared down the weapon, an eyebrow rising.<p>

"It is a silver dagger blessed in holy water and rubbed with salt. I couldn't find the exact way to kill an incubus…I figured we'd just cover all the bases."

Sherlock took the dagger from the man.

"And if this doesn't work?" he asked. Bobby shrugged.

"Improvise."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and threw the dagger on top of the shirts. The two men made their way downstairs and out to Bobby's truck. Sherlock sat down next to Bobby in the truck, his leg jiggling in anticipation and nervousness.

As they drove Sherlock had a startling realization. This was the first time that he was doing the thing that he swore he would never do; he was thinking with his heart, rather than his head. He hadn't even given it a second thought. The stark realization that Molly might be in trouble had driven him to do something that he would never have done a few months ago.

"You okay Sherlock?" Bobby asked as they sped down the highway. Sherlock gripped the handle on the door as Bobby took a sharp turn.

"I'm alright Bobby," Sherlock said softly. Bobby glanced over at Sherlock.

"You sure you want to do this alone?"

Sherlock stared out the window quietly. He watched the trees pass him by for a moment before he finally answered.

"Of course I do…I just hope I'm not too late."

* * *

><p>Molly smoothed down the front of her dress with shaking hands. While she did this Sam sat in the car beside her and proceeded to place a gun into her small purse.<p>

"Are you okay Mol?" he asked as he handed her the purse. She nodded as she adjusted her feet in her heels. They were at least two sizes too big for her rather petite feet.

"Yeah…yeah I'm good. I mean…I know I shouldn't be nervous, right? I mean this thing only attacks males. I'm just…I've got a bad feeling," she stuttered. She suddenly wished Sherlock was there. He would know what to say to make her feel better…or worse. It really depended on the mood he was in.

"Just remember, I'll be right outside waiting for you. So if something goes wrong…I'm here for you."

Sam smiled at her, but it still didn't reach his eyes. He held his hand out and cupped her face. She leaned into his cool palm and sighed. He looked down at Molly for a moment longer before pulling his hand away.

"Good luck Molly Hooper."

* * *

><p>Sherlock ran off of the plane, swinging his bag high onto his shoulder. It had been a short trip, only about four hours, but it had felt like a lifetime. He left the small airport, glancing quickly down at the name of the hotel he had quickly scrawled on his hand before leaving, and looked around for a cab. He then realized, in such a small town, that cabs weren't going to be nearly as plentiful as they were in England.<p>

He hoofed his way down the road as fast as his long legs could carry him. To make matters worse it began to rain. It was light at first, but it suddenly became very heavy very fast. Sherlock pulled his coat around his body and shivered. He didn't notice the truck pulling up beside him until the passenger side mirror nearly hit him in the back of the head.

"Hey, you need a ride?" the driver asked.

"Yes, please. Thank you!" Sherlock said. He climbed into the passenger side and slammed the door.

"Where you off too?" the man asked. Sherlock took a brief moment to study the man, worried that he had made a mistake. He had never actually 'hitch-hiked' before.

The man was innocent looking enough. A farmer, if the dirt under his nails and the mud smeared on his rough, worn clothes was any indication. His skin was weathered and dark, but his eyes were bright and cheery. Sherlock inclined his head to the man and spoke with the best American voice he could muster (which sounded like a cross between Welsh and Southern Georgian).

"I need to find the Paradise Valley Motel. A friend of mine is staying there."

The man raised an eyebrow, then shrugged and pressed his foot on the gas. Sherlock drummed out a simple beat of frustration on his duffel. The man was a slow driver, taking his time on the turns and stopping for almost thirty seconds at every stop sign. Sherlock wondered if walking would have been faster.

Finally after what felt like _two_ lifetimes the old farmer stopped in front of the small, secluded inn.

"Good luck with her," the farmer said with a smile. Sherlock nodded his thanks and began opening the door when he stopped. He looked back at the man.

"How did you know it was a girl I was coming to see?" he asked suspiciously. The farmer got a strange twinkle in his eye and he patted the side of his nose with his index finger.

"You got that look."

"Look?"

"The look of love. It's plastered all over your face."

Sherlock stared at the man. Before, in England, no one ever really knew what Sherlock was feeling. Mycroft was the only one who could get close, and that was only because he had had much longer to study Sherlock's habits than anyone else. Sherlock liked to keep up the appearance that he was an emotionless ass; it was easier, and people didn't treat you like you were weak. Emotions were weak.

And yet, in the last two days, two different people had been able to read Sherlock as though he were their favorite novel. And they were even quoting from it, annoyingly enough. Sherlock practically fell out of the truck and slammed the door after himself. He had just enough mindset to properly thank the farmer before he ran to the lobby of the Paradise Valley Motel.

Inside the lobby it was about as decrepit as the inside, and the owner of the motel was the same. She sat on a stool behind the counter and flipped between two channels on her extremely old TV while she shoveled pork rinds into her mouth.

Sherlock flipped his soaking wet hair out of his face and put on his best, most handsome smile. He leaned against the counter and stood there until the lady had turned her attention upon him. When she saw him she quickly wiped her hands on her stained dress and attempted to tidy up her blonde-gray bun on top of her head.

"Well hi there. How can I help you?" she asked, leaning against the counter. Sherlock had to refrain from flinching back at the smell coming off of the woman. He smiled even wider.

"Hello…" he began in his normal accent. He had learned his first year of Uni that American girl's swooned when they heard a man with a proper English accent. Or, at least, they swooned at the other men that were in the same class as Sherlock. _He_ had never had time for silly girls at the time.

"Oh, my name is Rosie."

"Well, hello Rosie. I am _very_ pleased to make your acquaintance. I was hoping you could help me."

"Uh huh?" she said as she stared at Sherlock.

"I'm looking for some friends of mine. They should have checked in yesterday evening. An older gentleman, a young woman with brunette hair, and a gargantuan man."

The women nodded.

"Yeah, I remember the big guy. Built like a tank. But why do you need to know where they are?"

"They are friends of mine. They told me to meet them here."

The women glared at Sherlock in suspicion.

"Shouldn't you know the room number if you were supposed to meet them here?"

"You've got me Rosie. Alright. The female is my sister. She ran off with her boyfriend and his father. Our father sent me here to bring her back. He doesn't like her boyfriend. And I really don't either. So please, Rosie-"

Sherlock reached across the counter and took Rosie's ham-hock hand in his own. He covered her hand with his other and looked Rosie deeply in her eyes.

"Please tell me where they are so that I can save my sister."

Sherlock smiled to himself as he made his way down to room 23. The smile slid off of his face and was replaced by a determined grimace as he knocked on the door.

A strange man answered the door and, even though Sherlock couldn't see it, he knew the man was armed.

"What do you want?" he asked in a hostile manner. Sherlock raised his hands to show he wasn't hiding anything.

"Please, my name is Sherlock. I'm here to see Molly. I have to warn her. It's not a succubus she is after. It's an incubus. It attacks females, not males."

The man stared at Sherlock for a heartbeat before he sighed and opened the door all the way. Sherlock entered and, upon first glance, realized that Molly wasn't there. A deep pit of dread began forming in his stomach.

"Sherlock, why are you here?" came a voice from the doorway. Sherlock looked up to see Samuel standing in the doorway with a perplexed look.

"I'm here to see Molly."

"Molly isn't here."

"Then where is she!" Sherlock demanded. The other man in the room, a darker haired man, stepped forward threateningly. Samuel shook his head at the man.

"She's down at the Jade Bar."

Sherlock felt his blood turn icy. His eyes widened and for a moment he almost reached out and punched Samuel as hard as he could. But he knew that doing that would get him nowhere fast, except maybe dead by the looks on the other two men's faces.

"Why is she down there? Doesn't she realize that the creature is not a Succubus, but an Incubus? It _will_ attack her."

Samuel sighed after Sherlock's explanation and sat down slowly on the bed.

"Yeah, I was worried about that," he muttered. Sherlock stared at the man.

"And you still let her go?" he asked dumbfounded.

"Sam's with her. He'll protect her if anything goes down. Besides didn't you and Molly have some sort of-," Samuel said.

He didn't get to say anything else. Sherlock had already walked to the door, thrown it open, and had disappeared into the pouring sheets.

"-tiff?" Samuel finished. He glanced at Christian and Mark, who both shrugged. Suddenly they heard the sound of Samuel's truck starting up.

"Hey!" Samuel yelled. The three men ran to the door, but Sherlock was already peeling out of the parking lot.

"Ah, hell," Christian said. Samuel nodded in agreement.

* * *

><p>Molly sat at the bar, a bloody Mary in her hand as she glanced around the bar. She could feel her palms sweating even though the bar was quite cool. She rubbed her right palm on her dress before turning back to the bar.<p>

The Jade Bar was not very crowded that night. It was only a Wednesday after all, and still fairly early in the evening. Maybe a handful of people were occupying the bar. A group of what looked like business people were enjoying an after work drink in the corner, their attention focused more on the sharing of water-cooler gossip than their drinks. The stereotypical lonely man was sitting at the end of the bar, his eyes glazed as he finished off his fourth beer.

The only other patron, and the only one that Molly believed could possibly be the succubus was a woman in a short red dress. She was sitting at a booth, her eyes scanning the bar. Suddenly a man walked in from the pouring rain. Molly watched as the woman stood up and hugged the man to her body before pecking him on the cheek.

Molly sighed and turned back to the bar.

"You know, you don't strike me as the type to be into someone of the …fairer sex," a male voice invaded her thoughts. Molly turned around in surprise, then promptly began blushing.

"Oh no, sorry. I just…I liked her dress," Molly stuttered. The man in question was one of the better looking ones from the group of business people out for a drink. Molly glanced behind her, but the others of his group looked as though they didn't realize he was gone. Molly turned back to the man, then blinked.

He was…extraordinarily handsome. His flyaway hair was a natural strawberry blonde with stripes of fake peroxide blonde. It made him look much younger than he probably was. His brown/gold eyes shown underneath the fringes of his bangs, and, as Molly's eyes traveled farther down, she noticed that his suit hugged him in _all_ the right places. His white shirt was open slightly to reveal a smooth chest, tight and defined from what had probably been years of exercising. He was basically everything Sherlock was not, disregarding the height. This man was probably taller (which was quite a feat…he was probably just a bit shorter and smaller than Sam).

Molly gulped when the man looked her up and down, his leering gaze penetrating her in a way that made her feel a little more than uncomfortable. But then he looked up, his eyes meeting hers, and she felt this calming, relaxing feeling flow through her body.

"What's your name sweetheart?"

"M-Molly Hooper," Molly said. Her eyes widened. Under normal circumstances she would have _never_ revealed her real name, especially to someone she had never met.

"British, huh?" he smirked.

"Yes, I'm from London."

"Well, my name is Matthew, but you can call me Matt," he held out his hand. Molly took his hand and felt a strange zing flow from her palm and up her spine. Her entire body suddenly felt heavy. Her limbs felt like sand and her eyesight wavered. A serene smile crossed her face.

"Come along Molly Hooper. Let's go have a little…fun," he grinned. Molly didn't even think about how wrong this all was. About how she shouldn't go. About how this was all going to end badly.

She just stood up from the bar stool and began to follow Matt. He slithered an arm around hers and gently guided her to the front door of the bar. Molly didn't even feel the rain on her skin. She didn't feel anything but pleasure radiating from the patch of bare skin on her own.

* * *

><p>The door to the bar slammed open. A dark silhouette stood in the doorway, his dark hair dripping and his eyes alight as he scanned the bar. He stomped in, every eye in the area trained on him. He stopped at the bar and looked up at the bartender. The bartender, a short balding man stopped what he was doing to stare at the man.<p>

"Where is she?" Sherlock asked, rain water flinging off of his lips at the ferocity of his words.

"W-where is who?" the bartender asked.

Sherlock pushed himself away from the bar and tried to bring back some of the dignity that he had lost in his panic-stricken attempt to locate Molly. Of course, he thought, the bint won't be here. Nothing is ever easy anymore.

Sherlock looked around at the occupants of the bar, his eyes scanning each one intrusively and intimately.

"I'm looking for someone. Her name…is Molly. She is 5'7'' and fairly pretty."

_Beautiful_, his mind said. He grimaced at the stray thought. His brain was beginning to betray him.

"She may have been here for a while. And she may have looked like she was waiting for someone. She was also English, like me," Sherlock gave the vague description. He noted that the bartender had a look of recognition on his face, but nothing that set alarm bells off. Suddenly Sherlock noticed a couple of people from the group in the corner shift uncomfortably.

Sherlock would look back on this moment and wonder what exactly he was thinking. Maybe he was stricken with sudden madness. Maybe Bobby had rubbed off on him in a strange way. Or maybe…maybe this was one of those rare moments in his life where Sherlock was thinking with his heart, rather than his head.

Sherlock walked over to the table and glared down his nose at the group. It was made up of 2 women and seven men. Sherlock noted a missing space where someone was probably sitting at earlier. He slowly pulled the knife that Bobby had given him out of his waistband. The nine people gasped and leaned back slightly, then the females screamed when Sherlock unceremoniously speared the knife tip into the table. He stepped back and the knife wobbled slightly, catching the light and reflecting the look of rage on Sherlock face.

"Now, who is going to tell me where my friend is? Where did the creature take her?"

The others looking on with frightened, confused looks. All accept one. The last one, one of the females, looked downright terrified. Sherlock narrowed his sights on her.

"You know what he is," Sherlock stated. It wasn't a question. The woman looked between her coworkers, then down at the table before nodding.

"I…I caught him, at work, feeding. A…A girl had fallen asleep. He was just standing over her, but I saw this…_mist_ passing from her body to his mouth. But he told me that it was just a taste, just enough to keep him alive. That he didn't kill. He didn't like killing," she said, her small speech ending with a dry sob. Sherlock realized that the girl had strong feelings for the man…the monster. But she knew…she knew that he wasn't refraining from killing the women he fed on.

"Where did he take my friend?" Sherlock asked, gentler this time. The woman looked up at Sherlock, catching his eyes for a moment, before looking back down.

"He…he usually takes them to his apartment first. The have sex. Then he takes them back to their homes before they fall asleep. He…he feeds from there. He doesn't like…corpses in his bed," the woman said softly. The others in the group gasped.

Sherlock felt ice flow through his veins at her words. He had forgotten that the main component of an Incubus was _seduction_.

Sherlock bent over the table and got his face closer to the woman. She flinched and sat back slightly, a sorry attempt to escape Sherlock's strong, unwavering gaze.

"_Where is he_?" Sherlock hissed. The woman opened her mouth when her eyes moved from Sherlock to something behind him. Fear crossed her face again. Suddenly Sherlock heard the sound of a shot gun cocking.

Sherlock pushed himself off of the table and glanced around slowly. He turned back around.

"Hello Sam."

"Hello Sherlock. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Sam asked pleasantly, even though the gun in his hand was anything but pleasant. Sherlock whipped around quickly, a snarky smile on his face.

"I'm here to see Molly," Sherlock said, slowly pacing around the bar. The patrons had all gone silent, some from fear and one because all of the alcohol had finally got to him. His soft snores were the only thing permeating the silence between the two men.

"Molly doesn't want to see you," Sam said, his voice taking on a far more menacing tone.

"How would you know? You don't even know where she is," Sherlock said. Sam shook his head.

"I know where she is," he said softly. Sherlock's eyes widened. Sam was telling the truth. He knew Molly had left with the Incubus. He knew that, at any moment, she could be dead.

"I was wrong Sam," Sherlock said, still pacing. He had watched Molly do this once. Keep the person talking while you walk towards them in a spiral formation, but it just looks like you are circling them.

"Wrong? The famous Sherlock Holmes is actually _wrong_ about something. That must be a massive blow to your giant ego," Sam taunted, following Sherlock's steady movement with his gun.

"I was wrong," Sherlock repeated. "You aren't a sociopath…you are a psychopath."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Listen to you. You seriously think you know everything! You think that the world is some easily read, easily defined book. But things aren't that simple. Sometimes you have to sacrifice one to save many! That is the way of life!"

Sherlock shook his head slowly.

"No, that isn't right. If you love someone, you will sacrifice _anything_ to protect them."

Sam began laughing. He lowered the barrel of the gun slightly as he did so.

"You…you love her? Oh that is hilarious! I thought she was just convenient to you. But you _love_ Molly. Like, actually _love_ her," Sam repeated himself. Sherlock felt anger surge inside his body, but on the outside he continued to look cool and collected. He suddenly noticed a movement behind the bar. His eyes flicked for just a moment, then rested back on Sam. Luckily the taller man hadn't noticed.

"Sam, do you want to know something interesting?"

Sam chuckled slightly.

"And what is that, _Sherlock_?"

"I don't hate you," Sherlock began. "As a matter of fact, I'm not even angry with you. I pity you."

Sam's eyes narrowed and all of his attention was focused on Sherlock. Perfect.

"Hell certainly did a number on your head."

Sam's eyes widened and he bared his teeth. He let out an animalistic yell before taking a step forward. Suddenly a shot gun butt came out of nowhere and rammed Sam in the back of the skull. Sam fell to the ground with a heavy thump. Sherlock looked up to see Christian staring at him. He nodded his head at the door.

"Hurry up. He won't stay down long, and I don't think I'll be the first one he'll want a piece of when he wakes up. That was one hell of a jibe."

Sherlock nodded his thanks and turned to the door.

"Wait!" a female voice yelled. Sherlock turned around to see the woman he had been speaking to earlier standing up. Sherlock walked over to her and she shrank back a bit in fear. Then she straightened up and tried to look dignified, although it came off as sheepish.

"His apartment is two blocks away on the corner of 15th and Main. Basement, number three," she said softly. Then she sat back down in the booth. Sherlock stared down at the woman before grabbing the handle of his knife and wrenching it out of the wood table.

He was leaving just as Sam began to come too.

* * *

><p>Molly stared up at Matt as he pulled his shirt off. Her body felt…paralyzed. It was a mixture of rage, revulsion, and ecstasy. Matt slowly ran his hands up Molly's thighs, spreading them open slightly as her dress slid up her legs.<p>

"N-no," she managed to say softly. Matt stopped to look up at Molly, then began to grin.

"My my my, someone has a strong will," he said, brushing a lock of Molly's hair out of her face. She flinched and tried to pull back.

"Don't fight it sweetie," he said softly. He leaned down and placed a kiss Molly's slightly parted lips. She thrashed and was finally able to flip her head to the side. Matt laughed out loud.

"What's the matter? You aren't enjoying it?" he asked, his eyes full of hate as he smiled, showing all of his teeth.

"I…know…what…you…are," she hissed between her clenched teeth. She tried to ignore the electric tingles of pleasure that were crawling up her thighs from his touch. Matt laughed again.

"Oh I know. I could tell you were a hunter the moment you walked into the bar. You aren't very good at hiding it. The thing I'm wondering, though, is why didn't your hunter friend who was waiting outside come to rescue you?"

Molly turned her eyes to glance at Matt. He must have noticed the confused look on her face.

"Oh ho! You didn't notice? Of course you didn't. I gave you a pretty heavy dose of my hormones. I thought it would take a hell of a lot more to get you to come back with me than it actually did."

Matt jumped off of Molly and she sighed in relief. Suddenly she felt his hands on the sides of her head as he turned her head back to face him. He was smiling gleefully. Then he leaned in close to whisper in her ear. Her eyes got wider and wider as he spoke.

"As you came _oh so_ complacently with me, I happened to see your rather large hunter friend. He saw me. He saw me dragging you off…_and he did nothing_," he hissed the last part into her ear. Molly felt tears well in her eyes. Matt pulled away, the manic smile still on his face.

Molly stared at the ceiling as the monster stepped out of her view. She couldn't believe it. Monsters lie. They did every day.

But this time was different. This time…she knew he was telling the truth. And she knew that Sherlock had been telling the truth.

Oh god.

Sherlock.

Molly bit her lip to keep from weeping openly. Sherlock had been telling the truth. He knew, and he had tried to warn Molly. But Molly…Molly hadn't been thinking with her head, like he always told her to do. She had been thinking with her heart.

And now she was going to be raped and killed.

Matt came back into Molly's swimming vision, only now he wasn't wearing any clothes. He stroked Molly's cheek. Then he reached down, underneath her dress, and hooked his thumbs around the edges of her panties. Then he began taunting her.

"You know, this is my favorite part. Sure, I love the feeding. But this…_this_ is fun. You lay under me, completely submissive, and you hate it. But I _make_ you love it. I _make_ you beg for more. I _make you scream and_-"

Whatever he was about to say was cut off by a surprised look on his face. His eyes went wide and his mouth formed an 'o' shape. Molly watched as he looked down where the barest tip of a knife jutted out of his chest, right where his heart was. With a slippering, sliding sound it was slowly pulled out by an unknown assailant.

Matt stared down at Molly as his eyes slowly glazed over. She gasped as his naked body began to pitch forward, but the person behind him grabbed his shoulders tightly and threw the body over the edge of the bed. Molly followed it with her eyes, then turned back to the other person in the room. A shaft of light from the outside street light caught his face.

"Sh-sherlock, is that you?" she whispered.

"Yes," Sherlock said softly, bending down the slide his arms underneath Molly's limp body. She reached up slowly, with much more effort than it should have taken, and stroked a piece of his hair.

"It _is_ you."

With that she was out cold. Sherlock stared down at her serene face and, with a sigh, held her close to his body.

* * *

><p>Molly sat on a hotel room bed in a big fluffy rob and a white towel wrapped around her hair, her knees drawn up as her feet rested in Sherlock's lap. She hadn't realized it earlier, but when she had left with Matt apparently she had lost her ill-fitting heels on the trek to Matt's apartment, and, at some point, must have waded through a sea of broken glass. At least, that's what it looked like.<p>

Sherlock carefully pulled another shard of glass from the side of her foot. She hissed, and he looked up quickly. He noticed that her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, but she hadn't been crying from the pain.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry," she said softly as Sherlock dabbed at the wound with a cotton ball. He discarded the cotton ball onto a rather large, bloody-red and white pile. He pulled the sewing needle off of the table that he had been using for the larger, deeper wounds.

"So you said many times before," he said. He wasn't _trying_ to be so…curt. But he was still running on adrenaline and anger. Molly flinched at his tone and rested her head in her arms until just her eyes were showing.

"How…how did you get here?" she asked, her quiet voice muffled by the sleeve of her robe. Sherlock continued working on her foot as he answered.

"I put in a call…to Mycroft."

Molly pulled her head up in surprise.

"Really? You must have hated that."

Sherlock grinned in amusement and looked up, expecting Molly to share in his amusement. But when he saw the serious look on her face the grin melted away. He continued to sew the wound on her foot shut.

"Yes, well…it had to be done, didn't it? He got me a place ticket, got Bobby's knife past security, and got us this extremely nice hotel."

Molly did have to admit that it was kind of Mycroft to put them up in a five-star hotel. She was unsure why was doing it. Maybe it had something to do with Sherlock _finally_ calling the man for help, rather than making Molly do it.

Molly watched Sherlock work methodically, and surprisingly tenderly, on her right foot. When he deemed it done he moved onto her left foot, which was less torn up than the right. Finally she couldn't take the silence any longer.

"Sherlock, why did you do it? Why did you save me?" she asked slowly, almost fearing the answer. Sherlock stopped his ministrations on her foot and looked up at her.

"I couldn't let you die you…"

_You are the most beautiful person in the world._

_You are the strongest woman I've ever met._

_I…I love you_

"…are convenient to me. You promised you would help me settle this Moriarty problem. Once that is done…we can go back to the way things were."

Molly stared at Sherlock and marveled at the fact that she suddenly knew what it was like to feel ones heart break.

Sherlock began sewing another wound on her foot, but she couldn't feel the pain. The pain in her chest was far worse. She had convinced herself that she had zero feelings for the man, but, somewhere deep down, she had still held on to that hope.

That hope that maybe, _just maybe_, Sherlock could love her.

But no…no, it wasn't meant to be.

"Right," Molly managed to choke out. "After we get back we'll figure out where the real Moriarty is. And then you can go back to your previous life, and forget about all of this."

She felt her tongue go dry at the words. Sherlock stared at Molly, then looked down and nodded.

"Here. It's…I'm done. Excuse me a moment."

Molly pulled her foot away as Sherlock got up and retired into the bathroom. Molly turned her back to the bathroom and lay down on the pillow. She felt tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

_She had lost Dean. He had moved on to bigger, better things in his life. _

_She had lost Sam. He was…well, she wasn't sure what he was. She just knew that he was lost to her._

_And now…now she had lost Sherlock. Or, maybe, she never really had him in the first place._

Molly turned her head into the pillow as a wail escaped from her mouth. She began to sob into her pillow, her shoulders shaking violently as her anguish made itself physical in the form of tears. She curled tightly into the fetal position and gripped her pillow. She realized that thinking with her heart, rather than her head, had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

Behind the bathroom door Sherlock gripped the sides of the sink. He listened as Molly sobbed. His hands shook slightly and he glared at himself in the mirror. With a frustrated yell he slammed his fist into the mirror, sending rippling cracks across its surface.

Sherlock stared at his reflection through the cracked mirror, and felt that this was a much truer reflection of himself. Of how he felt about Molly.

He realized, then, that he had stopped thinking with his head and started thinking with his heart. And he wasn't sure what to do about that

_Phew, what a long ass chapter! And what an interesting, slightly-more-angsty-then-I-meant-it-to-be cliffhanger! Well, I hope that sated all of ya'll's tastes for a while. I'm going to start working on the next chapter, but with my wedding only weeks away and with 9 centerpieces to make, embroidering dresses, and stuff to finish getting together it might be a bit before I update again. I'm going to try super hard though, and reviews always light that fire under my butt. Until then, your ever faithful and always (never) on time, Craven!_


	8. My World and Yours Part 1

**I want to apologize deeply for the great lack of updates on my part over these last few months. I've had a complete life turnaround lately and things are **_**just**_** getting back to normal.**

**Within the last few months I have gotten married, gotten a new job, and been having major family medical issues. But, like I promised when I first began writing this fanfic, I **_**will**_** finish this. I have a basic summary of each chapter, and I know where I want to take each chapter right up to the end.**

**This has also been one of the hardest chapters for me to write. Along with being busy I have had some of the worst writer's block. I really wanted to do something kind of…Sherlock-related and light hearted, because these next few chapters are going to get intense, and are going to focus heavily on the Supernatural side. But, boy oh boy, I don't know how Gattis and Moffat write those crazy deduction rants. I hope I did those men justice.**

**Anyway, I'm done with my rant. Now that this chapter is over, it is all downhill from here. I should, hopefully, have the rest of the story done in less than a month. Cross your fingers for me, and, again, thank you so much for reading and being patient with me! I love all my readers, and I hate that I've left you hanging! Love again, and apologies!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or Supernatural!**

* * *

><p>Molly tapped her hands on the steering wheel as she hummed along to oldies playing on the car radio. Her hair whipped in the cool night breeze blowing through the window as she stared out on the flat, lifeless road. The stars stretched all around her as she drove, and, for a moment, she felt like she was flying. She let go of the steering wheel, using her knee to control it, and sat back in her seat. These were the moments she relished.<p>

The moment, however, was broken by a stern voice.

"Hand's at ten and two, Miss Hooper."

Molly jumped slightly and the steering wheel turned. She grabbed onto the wheel and righted them onto the road again before turning and glaring at the smirking man beside her.

"You did that on purpose," she mumbled. Sherlock shrugged and turned back to his makeshift shirt-pillow before falling back asleep. Molly stuck out her tongue at him.

"I saw that," he muttered. Molly rolled her eyes.

"And that."

"You know, instead of pretending to sleep why don't you take the wheel so that I can sleep," she said. Sherlock sat up and glanced over at Molly, who raised an eyebrow at him.

"You know very well I don't have an American driver's license."

"Yeah, but you know how to drive in America."

"That is not the point."

"No," Molly huffed. "The point is that I've driven for hours and I am exhausted."

Molly saw what looked like a flash of genuine concern flash across Sherlock's face, but it was gone when she turned to get a better look.

"Pull over," Sherlock sighed after a few moments of silence. Molly pulled over gratefully and they switched sides. Molly was grateful that he hadn't taken his shirt. She laid against it and inhaled a scent that was all Sherlock. She was starting to fall into a deep slumber, but not before hearing Sherlock exclaim, "If we get pulled over, on your head be it."

"Whatever, shut up," she mumbled before falling into a deep sleep.

* * *

><p><em>Earlier that week…<em>

Bobby let out a sigh and looked down at the book in front of him. He rubbed his eyes and sighed as the words in the old, Latin book swam before him. With a grunt he slammed the book shut and turned off the desk lamp, bathing the room in early dusk darkness. As his eyes became adjusted his noticed an orange glow permeate all the open spaced in the room. He stood up and walked over to the window to watch the sun set among the black trees.

Bobby looked over as the front door opened. He eyed the two adults as they made their way into the house. He watched as they set their bags heavily on the floor. He could almost feel the misery radiating from them.

He heard Molly say something softly, although it was garbled to his ears. Sherlock nodded. She turned and Bobby watched her whole body raise and lower in a deep sigh. He sighed himself when he saw Sherlock reach out for Molly, hesitate, and pull away. All without her noticing. Bobby listed to her step gently upstairs before turning his focus back to Sherlock.

Sherlock watched after Molly for a moment longer before making his way into the study. It had become one of his favorite rooms in Bobby's house. He stared out the window, his eyes glowing in the vanishing sunlight. Bobby stepped up beside the man and put his hands behind his back.

"How'd it go?" Bobby asked softly. Sherlock flinched slightly, just enough for Bobby to noticed, before a passive mask took its place over his face.

"I was right. Sam used her as…bait."

"And?"

"And…I was almost too late."

"But you weren't late. You saved her."

"Yes…I saved her."

"…Sherlock?"

"I…fear."

Bobby glanced up at the taller man. He saw Sherlock stare out into the diminishing light for a moment longer before his bright blue orbs slid down to meet Bobby's.

"What do you fear?" Bobby asked quietly. Sherlock didn't look away and, for a split second, Bobby saw the raw, deep feelings that the man kept suppressed better than anyone Bobby's had every met. For that very moment Bobby saw exactly who Sherlock was.

"I fear…that she has lost who she is. That…spark, that heat, inside. The spark that makes her…Molly. I fear that, with the betrayal of Sam and the loss, however metaphorical, of Dean…I think that it has finally broken her. I can see it. In her eyes. I can see it."

Sherlock's eyes left Bobby's. Bobby stared at the man.

"Did you tell her differently?" he asked softly.

Sherlock was silent, but Bobby watched as his mask slid back on. Bobby turned back to the large window with a sigh. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he reached up and placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Don't give up on her. She's stronger than you think."

They both watched, in silence, as the sun slipped among the trees and the room was bathed in darkness.

* * *

><p>Molly was tired. No…she was exhausted. Not just her body, but her mind, her emotions. She was just…tired. She sat down on her bed, than turned and laid down on her pillow. She closed her eyes and waited for sleep to come.<p>

But it evaded her.

She sat back up and sighed. She really needed to talk to someone she realized.

She rolled over and reached down until she found her jacket that she had dropped to the ground earlier, and, with some maneuvering, pulled out her cell phone. She dialed a number that she had memorized many many years ago, then waited.

_Ring_

_Ring_

_I'm sorry, this number has been disconnected or is not in service at this time. Please call back and try again later._

Molly pulled the phone away from her ear slowly, her eyes locked onto the ceiling but staring into a vast sea of nothing. A solo tear traced its way down her cheek and fell into a small pool in the shell of her ear. She lifted the silent phone up to her ear.

"H-hey Dean, it's me Molly. I didn't realize you had changed your number. Guess I should have asked Bobby, shouldn't I?"

She stopped talking for a moment, a lump moving its way into her throat. She swallowed a couple of times until the lump diminished slightly. However she couldn't stop the waver in her voice as she began to speak again.

"Dean, things have gotten…so hard. Sam…Sam's all _wrong_. He tried to hurt me, Dean. He tried to hurt me bad. And he didn't even care. And…and the person I thought wouldn't care all too much…well, he came and saved me. He saved me from Sam. And…and I don't know how to feel about that. I don't know if he did it because he wanted to save me, because he cares about me…or if he did it because I'm the only person that can help him get back home, back to John."

Molly rolled over onto her side and curled herself into a ball.

"I know that hunters are supposed to be strong, and fearless, and…and I'm not Dean. I'm scared. I'm so scared. I'm scared of what we are going to find out as we keep going down this road. I'm scared of what Moriarty is going to do to us. I'm scared of what happened to Sam. And…and I'm really scared of what is going to happen to me. If we figure this all out, if this all gets resolved, where do I go? Am I…do they…does he just expect me to go back to being Molly Hooper, midnight morgue worker, always at his beck and call? I just…I don't know if I can."

"Dean, I was wrong. I do need your help. This is all…a little overwhelming. The whole thing with Sherlock…and Sam…it's just gotten to be way to much. I'm so tired Dean."

Molly let the phone drop to the side as her body was wracked with sudden, violent sobs.

* * *

><p>Morning was rough on the entire singer household. Bobby woke up with his typical hangover, but it was coupled with a feeling of dread. He hadn't felt this feeling in a very long time.<p>

Sherlock hadn't slept at all the night before. He had stood at the window, his body barely moving, but his mind had been moving a mile a minute. Finally around three thirty am he moved into the kitchen and made a good, strong cup of tea. Around four he moved out onto the porch and onto his third cup of tea. He sat on the porch and looked out upon the forest of cars in front of him.

Molly spent the night lying on her bed, drifting between fitful sleep and awake alertness. It wasn't until almost four that she finally fell asleep completely.

Around six am a shrill ringing awoke, or, in Sherlock's case, alerted, everyone. Bobby stumbled from his room and stumbled down the stairs as quickly as his legs would carry him. Sherlock was already standing at the table where the phones were located.

"Dammit boy, answer the damn phone before you wake up the whole damn neighborhood!"

"Too late," Molly muttered from the opening to the kitchen. Bobby glanced back at the girl, grimacing at how she looked. Her eyes were blood shot and her face was still slightly puffy from crying. He turned back around before she noticed him looking. He took to glaring at Sherlock instead until the man picked up the phone.

Bobby grinned when he heard yelling issue from the phone. He smiled as Sherlock handed him the phone after pulling it away quickly from his own ear.

"Singer…uh huh…yeah…dammit, quit yer g'd-dang yelling…uh huh…you're _how_ far out…yeah this isn't the best time…right…stubborn bastard."

Bobby hung up the phone. Sherlock raised an eyebrow as the older man grinned up at him.

"Don't people normally end a phone call with a farewell saying?" Sherlock asked, his usual sarcasm not quiet as strong as usual. Bobby shrugged.

"Is Rufus stopping by?" Molly suddenly asked.

"Rufus is stopping by," Bobby said, turning to face his niece.

Molly grinned, but Sherlock noticed that it didn't quite reach her eyes as it usually did. She turned and ran upstairs to change into something less slept-in.

"Who is Rufus?" Sherlock asked. Bobby opened his mouth to answer when a loud, quick rapping sounded on the front door, interrupting him.

"That's Rufus."

Sherlock watched from the entrance of the kitchen as Bobby walked over to the door. A rather tall African-American man entered the hall. Without exchanging words, just a quick glance, the man held out his hand. Bobby held up two flasks. Sherlock knew one of the flasks was full of holy water, and figured that the other was full of some strong alcohol. He was right when the man wrinkled his nose after taking a swig from the second flask.

"Hey there old man," Bobby finally said to the man, Rufus.

"Old? Look who's talking," Rufus shot back. Both men clasped hands warmly. That was when Rufus took notice of Sherlock.

"Who's the beanpole?" Rufus asked. Sherlock glared at him and resisted the urge to point out that he was within the normal bmi for someone of his height. Bobby stifled a laugh and walked over beside Sherlock. He clapped a heavy hand on the man's shoulder.

"This is Sherlock. You remember…Molly's Sherlock?"

"Ohhh," was all Rufus had to say. Sherlock glanced between the two men and hastily shrugged Bobby's hand off.

"I am not _Molly's_ Sherlock, nor will I ever be."

He strode forward and thrust his hand out to Rufus.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."

"And, if Bobby is correct, a man on the run from his friends and family."

Rufus didn't take Sherlock's hand. Sherlock lowered his hand and began a staring match with the man. Suddenly he broke the staring contest to glance behind Sherlock. Sherlock stared a moment more before turning.

Molly was standing at the foot of the stairs, a bottle of dark liquor in her hands. She walked past Sherlock without looking at him and held out the bottle to Rufus, who took it with a soft smile.

Sherlock realized with a jolt that she had overheard him when he proclaimed that he was _not_ hers. He hadn't meant it like that, it's just how it came out.

"What's that?" Bobby asked. Molly turned, a mask in place that was obvious to everyone.

"I got Rufus a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label Whiskey a few years back, but then you stopped talking to him for awhile. So I hid it in my room."

"Hey, I like whiskey! Why didn't you give it to me," Bobby asked.

"I got it for Rufus because I think of him as a…whiskey connoisseur. You, uncle dear, are an alcoholic. I couldn't be an enabler."

Rufus, Bobby, and Molly shared a laugh. Sherlock, on the other hand, just looked on with a sour, contemplative face.

* * *

><p>A moment later all four adults were seated at the dinner table; two with fresh, hot cups of tea, and two with glasses full of whiskey. Sherlock didn't feel he needed to point out that it was a wee bit early for drinking.<p>

"So what are you doing here Rufus?" Molly asked. She had run upstairs to change and now looked as fresh as one who had spent most of the night crying could. Sherlock could still tell that her eyes were fairly puffy. But, it seemed, seeing Rufus was making her quite a bit happier. He liked that.

"Got a bit of trouble down in Mexico, right on the border. Seems a nest of vamps are high tailing their way down south. Had a friend in Texas get a brief wiff of 'em, but he couldn't catch 'em in time."

"So what d'ya need our help for?" Bobby asked.

"Accordin' to my friend, the nest is twice the size of any we've ever dealt with. And they are taking snacks with them. But they have to hunker down every few days or so. Restock, I guess. And I've been hearing on about people disappearing right along the border. So I'm thinkin'; we head down there before they move on and try to wipe out as many as we can. Deplete them of numbers, hit 'em while they're soft, and take away their snacks."

Molly looked back at her uncle, who had that gleam in his eye that came with an impending nest destruction (a gleam, she noticed, that Sherlock seemed to get whilst on a case). Then she glanced over at Sherlock, who was staring straight ahead at Rufus, who was pretending not to notice.

"Rufus, I can't."

Sherlock glanced over at the woman, his face a mask of confusion. He figured that Molly of all people would be interested, especially since she was so happy to see Rufus.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Sherlock and I have gotta figure out this Moriarty thing. I mean, I've been putting it off too long, doing all of these hunts. It's time to get back to the task at hand. Get Sherlock back to his old life. Right Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't say anything. He looked away from Molly and over to Rufus, then Bobby. Rufus' had raised an eyebrow in annoyance and, hidden deeper below, worry. Bobby wasn't even masking his worry. All three men could see how strangely…sad Molly was.

Sherlock couldn't figure out where this was coming from. That bothered him.

"Molly."

"Hm?"

"Let's help them."

* * *

><p>Hours later Sherlock almost regretted the decision to accompany Rufus. Mainly because he was, literally, accompanying Rufus. Bobby had insisted that Molly ride with him so that he could have a 'nice, long chat with her.'<p>

"So, how'd you and Molly meet?" Rufus asked, breaking the silence that had stifled the interior of the old, rusting truck. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You don't have to attempt to exchange pleasantries with me," Sherlock said. He expected Rufus to do what everyone did; roll their eyes at him, snap at him, or, on some occasions, hit him. Then Rufus did something he wasn't expecting. He laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"Nuthin'."

"Obviously it is not _nothing_. What is so funny?"

"The way you and Molly tip toe around each other. You two act like you don't care, but its impossible to hide yer emotions. Plain as the mustache on my face to someone who's lookin' for it…somethin' neither of you are. So damn wrapped up in yerselves."

Sherlock glanced over at the man, an eyebrow raised in contempt.

"Oh, get yer panties out of a twist, I won't tell her. But don't keep fooling yourself. For gods sake, look at me and Bobby. I've never been able to keep a woman in my life. They either think I'm goin' around behind their backs, or that I'm insane. And Bobby…well, Bobby has been through the ringer, and it's taken his toll on him."

"He's a widow," Sherlock said, making it so it did not sound like a question. Rufus glanced over at the man before turning back to the windshield.

"You got that?"

"Yes," Sherlock said bluntly.

"Hm, got that just from talking to the man?"

Sherlock thought about it for a moment.

"No. Just from viewing his surroundings mostly. And the drinking habits."

Rufus huffed and silence reigned in the car for a moment. Then Rufus said in the thick, quiet air;

"Did you know he killed her?"

Sherlock went rigid a moment. He…had suspicions'. But, after the events of the last few months, he wasn't nearly as sure of himself. But now…

"No…no I didn't," Sherlock managed to croak out. He refused to look over at the man.

"Yeah…that's how we met. I helped him."

This time Sherlock did turn around.

"Why?" he asked, a question he was becoming annoyingly familiar with.

"Gal was taken over, possessed. I was already a hunter at the time. Bobby came to me, asked for my help, but refused to let me take the shot. Begged me to let him do it himself. Wouldn't even let me help him bury her. Kind of….romantic."

"Only a hunter would find that romantic," Sherlock snapped.

"Hey, Bobby loved the woman. Loved her so much that he refused to let the creature inside of her harm anyone else she cared about. It was sad, but romantic."

"Dead romantic," Sherlock muttered. He heard Rufus laugh slightly. Sherlock went back to staring out the window. After a moment he had a thought.

"Rufus?"

"Hm?"

"What was her name?"

Rufus seemed to think for a moment.

"I think it was…Karen."

* * *

><p>Bobby and Molly were silent in the old rickety truck. Bobby glanced at his niece every few moments, worry radiating off of him. Molly could feel it. It was beginning to irritate her.<p>

"Bobby, _what?_!" she finally snapped. Bobby didn't even flinch. Living with females, first Karen and then Molly, had made him near immune to mood swings.

"Nothin'," he mumbled.

"Then quit looking at me like that," Molly muttered back at him, turning back to the window.

"Jus' wonderin' what the hell happened between you and Sherlock."

Molly groaned and leaned back heavily, her head bouncing off of the bad of the chair.

"That bad huh?" Bobby asked. Molly sighed and ran a hand through her hair. She wasn't sure how she could explain herself, and her feelings, to Bobby without sounding like a complete knob.

"It's…it's not Sherlock's fault, first off," she said slowly, testing the words out on her tongue. Bobby didn't say anything, just glanced over at the woman before turning his eyes back to the road.

"It's just…Sam. And Dean. And…everything," she finally said after a moment. As if the dam that held back her emotions had suddenly cracked in two, she suddenly broke down. Bobby had a moment of surprise before he slowly pulled to the side of the road.

Rufus pulled up next to the truck, both men glancing in the window. Sherlock rolled down his window as he saw Bobby roll down his.

"Go on to the motel. We're havin' a bit of a crisis here," Bobby shouted. Before Sherlock could say anything Rufus leaned over him to shout back.

"Anything I can help with?"

"You are the _last_ person we need help from," Bobby hollered back. Molly choked out a laugh at that. She watched as the two men pulled away, noticing, for a moment, Sherlock's worried expression. She turned to Bobby as he unbuckled his seatbelt in order to get closer and throw an arm over the girl.

"Alright girly, talk."

Molly wiped her nose and lifted her head in the vain hope that her tears might magically go back into her eyes. When that didn't work she settled for wiping her sodden cheeks on her sweater.

"Bobby, I've lost 'em. I've lost Dean, and I've lost Sam. And…I dunno how to get 'em back," she started talking with the accent she had picked up from living with Bobby. That showed him just how upset she truly was.

"Molly, you haven't lost them. They're just…changed."

"Lost, Bobby. They are lost. And…and I don't wanna feel this ever again."

"Now we're talkin' about Sherlock, right?"

Molly shrugged. Bobby sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Look, missy, you know I ain't no Doctor Phil. I don't do the relationship-advice bs. But, from what I can tell, I don't think you'll be losin' that weirdo any time soon."

Molly snorted with laughter again. Bobby smiled. Then she went quiet again.

"Maybe…maybe not now. But, what happens when we've solved this. What happens when Sherlock has gotten his name back. What then?"

"Well, I don't know."

Molly sighed. Bobby looked down at his downtrodden niece. He realized, in that moment, how much of an impact Dean's new found family and Sam's betrayal had made on her. Of course it had upset him. He had always considered those boys family. But Molly…Molly had lost her family once before. And again, when her father's family turned their backs on her. Now it was happening again.

"Molly, have you asked him?"

"Hm?" Molly looked up at her Uncle, confusion clouding her features.

"Have you asked Sherlock what will happen? Cause, as I said, I don't think he's ready to lose you. You are both just to damn stubborn to say it."

Molly's eyebrows scrunched. She glanced down at her hands.

"Jus'…think about it. I think you are getting ahead of yourself, in my personal opinion."

He pulled back into his seat and started up the truck. He pulled back out onto the road.

"Hey Kiddo?" he asked suddenly.

"Hm?"

"Wanna go kill something."

"God you have _no _idea."

* * *

><p>unfortunately by the time Bobby and Molly showed up at the motel it was well past dark, and all four adults were too tired to even think about taking on a nest of Vamps. And, in an <em>entirely<em> accidental mix up that left Rufus with a terrific grin on his face, Sherlock and Molly ended up sharing a hotel room with only _one_ queen sized bed.

"He did this on purpose," Molly pointed out while she and Sherlock stared at each other from across the bed.

"I can sleep on the chair," Sherlock pointed to a threadbare chair in the corner. Molly raised an eyebrow.

"Jesus, we are both adults. We can share a bed together and not think of the damn implications," she finally stated. She began to tear the blankets out from underneath the pillow, messing up the neat made up bed. She threw her bag down on that side, claiming the left hand side for herself.

"There," she stated before she began to dig in her bag. Sherlock stared at the woman for a moment, an eyebrow raising slowly in unspoken questions. Molly just ignored him.

Sherlock stopped staring at the woman, who, he had slowly been discovering, was one of the few people in this world who could continue to surprise him. He glanced at the door when a heavy knock issued from the other side. With another quick glance at Molly, who was pulling clothing from the bottom of the duffel. He opened the door to see Bobby and Rufus looking far too mischievous to Sherlock.

"We're going to find some local color. You two joining us?"

Before Sherlock could say anything, Molly cried out from the bathroom, "Yeah, two seconds!"

Sherlock looked on in mild shock as Molly walked out in a small floral print dress that hugged at her curves. He began to think back to that night, Christmas night, when she had showed up at his flat in a fancy dress. This wasn't a fancy dress, just something fluttery that, in all honesty, made her look far younger than she was.

"Sherlock, you are staring," Molly said, a blush rising on her cheeks.

"Why are you wearing a dress?"

"Because I can?" was her response. Sherlock attempted to ignore the childish laughter of the two full grown men.

It wasn't long before Sherlock found himself seated at a table in a not-so-savory bar. He blatantly stared at the assembled group of leather clad bikers, 'cowboys' in ten-gallon hats and farmer tans, and women in all states of undress and bottle-blonde hair. He held an open bottle of beer but didn't drink from it.

"Tell me about them," Molly said suddenly. He glanced at her, but she was staring out at the people as well. He saw Rufus and Bobby glance at him expectantly.

"I am not a show dog that you can tell to perform tricks," he said haughtily. Molly smiled.

"Oh hush, Sherlock. We all know you enjoy showing off," she said softly. Sherlock glared at her before turning his attention back to the room.

"Man at the bar. His wife died of breast cancer fairly recently."

"How can you tell?" Rufus asked incredulously.

"Look at his arm. A recent tattoo by indication of the widespread cauterization, plus it is a pink ribbon; the typical symbol of breast cancer awareness. He is also wearing a wedding band, but there is a woman's wedding ring on a thong around his neck. Also, look at the way he holds himself-"

"Like a man who has lost everything," Molly muttered. Sherlock glanced down at her.

"Quite."

"What about those guys?" Bobby asked, cocking his head towards a group of men standing around a pool table.

"Four men, two women. All in their late 20's to early 30's. The brown haired woman and the blonde man are married. They seem to belong to a biker gang called 'Bandidos', if their faux leather jackets are any indication. But none of them are the leader. The bald one is cocky about his billiard talents by the way he holds himself while he plays. The brown haired one is the youngest. All of the other men are single. Of course this is all from a distance. If I had a chance to get more up close I could probably tell you more."

"Perfect," Molly ignored Sherlock's last statement as she stood up. She smoothed her dress down and, in front of Sherlock's eyes, seemed to almost transform into 'old' Molly; shy, clumsy, and all around innocent. Sherlock watched in mild shock and fascination as this Molly made her way over to the group.

"Girl is probably one of the best grifters you have ever met," Rufus said softly to Sherlock.

"I am discovering I know her less and less than I thought I did."

"Trust me, I've known the girl for almost her whole life, and she still surprises me."

He watched as she propositioned some of the men at the pool table. The bald one and the young one were instantly smitten with the innocent young woman who had come over. The elder two men and the married woman stood back and watched with some amusement as the other two men 'taught' Molly how to play pool. The last woman looked on in scathing jealousy.

Sherlock looked on as the bald one grabbed her hips to straighten her out. A flare of outrage shot through his body. He began to stand up when he felt a hand on his arm.

"Just wait, son. Just wait and watch," Rufus said. Sherlock sat back down slowly and watched as Molly missed shot after shot. A pout formed on her face. The bald one clucked her under the chin then sunk another ball. Molly tried to shoot and missed another easy shot.

"What is she doing?" Sherlock finally hissed.

"Just watch. This makes me laugh every time," Rufus said. Suddenly Molly stamped her foot and let out a frustrated huff. The bald one slung an arm around her shoulders and laughed.

"That would be my cue," Bobby said, taking a deep chug and finishing off his beer before he stood up and stumbled his way over to the pool table.

"He only had one beer. With his high alcohol tolerance he can't be drunk already," Sherlock marveled to himself. Rufus just laughed. Sherlock watched as Bobby stumbled over and leaned against the bald one for support, jarring him off of Molly.

"C'mon _dad_, lets get you out of here," Molly began, helping Bobby off of the bald man.

"Hell no! Hey skin head, I bet 50 bucks my daughter can beat you if you gave her a chance!" he hollered at the bald man.

"Well, old man, if you say so. Hey honey, lets play. I could use some of his money."

"Oh please, he didn't mean anything by it. He has been drinking. He doesn't know what he is saying."

"He made the bet. He has his money out. Grab your stick."

Sherlock watched as Molly hesitantly picked up the pool cue and continued to shoot horribly. Suddenly Sherlock realized what was happening.

"They are hustling him!" he stated. Rufus hushed the man.

"Not a word you want to be shouting out idjit! But yes, yes they are. Keep watching, Molly will steal the bastard's manhood in the process."

Sherlock and Rufus looked on as Molly lost yet another game. Bobby pulled out another $50, betting double or nothing. Of course the bald biker took the bet. Sherlock glanced over at the older three off to the side.

"They know their fried is being hustled," he pointed out. Rufus followed Sherlock's eye line.

"Yeah they do. But when you said the guy was cocky…well you gave Molly her edge. They won't mind seeing him get shot down a few pegs themselves. This'll be fun. Trust me."

Sherlock watched as Molly leaned against the pool table, a shy smile on her face while the bald man flirted with her. Sherlock let out a heavy breath through his nose. Rufus glanced over at him.

"Just wait."

Molly turned away from the man and leaned over the table. Sherlock could see her body stance change from earlier; she was holding the cue differently, aiming far more directly. Sherlock grinned as he watched the bald man's face drop.

"I guess you taught me really well!" he heard Molly squeal out, her voice octaves higher than usual. Then she giggled. Actually giggled. He had never heard her _giggle_ like that before. Laugh, snicker, guffaw, he had hear. But not giggle.

The bald man only ended up having two opportunities to shoot before Molly sunk the 8-ball.

"I don't know this woman," Sherlock found himself muttering.

"And you never will," Rufus stated as Molly and Bobby made their way over to the table.

"Well, looks like I've got drinks!" Bobby said, smashing a stack of 20's equaling out to 200 dollars onto the table. Rufus cheered and walked over to the bar to buy another round. Bobby glanced between Sherlock and his niece before joining Rufus at the bar.

"That was…surprising," Sherlock said to Molly. She laughed slightly and pushed her hair behind her ears.

"Yeah…Bobby and I used to do that when I was younger."

"I see," he sniffed. Molly glanced sharply up at the man.

"What is with that tone of voice?"

Luckily Sherlock was saved by Rufus and his pitcher of beer.

Sherlock knew what he was feeling. He didn't like to recognize the fact that he felt this way.

_Jealousy_

He knew he had no reason to be. He had no right to be. He didn't get jealous. He wasn't supposed to get jealous. Especially because of _Molly_.

Sherlock was jolted out of his thought by Bobby slamming another, full beer down in front of him.

"Drink. Quit thinking and drink."

Sherlock glanced over at Bobby. The knowing look on the old grizzled man's face startled him. Was he really being that obvious.

"That was great, by the way. Hilarious," Rufus said, patting Molly on the back.

"Probably the best one yet," Bobby laughed. Sherlock ignored the others. His attention had turned to the group of bikers at the pool table. He could see the bald one, who, now that he was paying more attention, bore an eery resemblance to Moriarty.

"Molly," he muttered, turning to the woman as she laughed at something Rufus said.

"Oi, Sherlock. Quit being a spoil sport for one-"

"The bald man you were playing with? He's coming over right now. He doesn't look entirely too please. I think the others explained that he got hustled."

"Shit," she said, turning just as the bald man and the younger man from earlier walked over to the table.

"Can I help you son?" Bobby asked, turning to the men.

"Fuckin' old man. I think you owe me some money. No one hustles Little Johnny and gets away with it," he growled as he pulled a knife out of his pocket.

"Is that so?" Bobby asked, a grin playing on his lips. He reached out for his beer, but the younger man smashed it out of his hand. Rufus and Molly stood up, fight in their eyes. Sherlock, however, knew a more subtle approach would be better in this instance.

"Little _Johnny_? Who bestowed you with that name? Surely not your mother?" he asked, leaning forward so that the overhead light illuminated his hair but hid his face.

"Who the fuck wants to know?"

"Well, it is just ironic really. For your mother to know as soon as she expelled you from her womb. Well, to put it simply; a Johnny, where I come from, is slang for a condom. So, in other words, your mother knew right away that you were going to be a _cock_. And, what is more, a small one at that."

Little Johnny's face went red with embarrassment and outrage as the people around them laughed.

"Look you fucking English faggot-"

"Oh, do shut up. I am not in the mood, nor the manner, to deal with a Neanderthal like yourself. So why don't you toddle off to your group of leather clad-"

"Sherlock, don't insult the biker gang," Molly interrupted, never taking her eyes off of the bald man.

"Of course. My apologies. What about young mister Little Johnny?"

"By all means; have your way with him," Molly grinned, her teeth showing. Sherlock stepped off to the side and came up closer to the bald man. He was pleased to see that he was nearly a head taller than the man, causing him to look up to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Now, here is how this will work. Turn around and walk away, or I expose you. I know you, _Little Johnny_, just from speaking to you I will leave your soul bared to the people in this room. Choose wisely."

Little Johnny stood still. Molly took a breath. A cocky grin formed on his face.

"Fuck-you."

"So be it," Sherlock hissed. He stepped away from the man and began pacing the bar. All of the patrons had gone still. He pulled out his phone for a moment, tapped on it, then grinned and put it away.

"What'cha doing? Calling the police or some shit? I ain't done nothing wrong," Little Johnny hollered.

"No, nothing of the sort. Just backing up some hypothesis I made."

"Wha'?"

"Nothing. Now, where was I?"

"Laying him bare to the world?" Molly said. She had finally taken her seat and was sipping on her beer, getting ready to enjoy the show.

"Ah yes. To start out with, you were born in New York, by your accent. Boston, I am assuming. Rich upbringing, private school"

"Hey, hey Johnny. You said you grew up in Hell's Kitchen," the young man said. Little Johnny turned to him wide eyed.

"Shut up Mickey. He's wrong. Hear that, you are fucking wrong," he shouted, turning to Sherlock. Sherlock held up a hand.

"Actually, I am not. Your vernacular is not lower class Bostonian, but rather an upper class, with an emphasized 'a' vowel sound. This led me to the assumption that most upper class Bostonian's go to private school, particularly in suburban areas. So, with a general assumption on your age, I looked up private schools who had students drop out between those years. I didn't come up with anything, so I looked at students who had been kicked out."

"And Little Johnny, your name popped right up. Johnny Monroe; kicked out sophomore year for fighting. Mommy and Daddy Monroe, heirs to the Monroe fortune, had no choice. They turned their son away and disowned him, leaving him without his trust fund. But that didn't stop Little Johnny. After joining up with some unsavory folks he returned home and, in a blind, drunken rage, tried to burn down his family home. And someone died, didn't they Johnny?"

Little Johnny was sheet white at this point. You could have heard a pin drop in the bar, the silence was deafening. But Sherlock wasn't done.

"Who is Eva Monroe, Johnny? Your mother? Your sister? Well? We are all a-quiver with anticipation."

"My…my younger sister," Little Johnny croaked out after a moment of silence. He was staring at Sherlock, but Molly got a glimpse of his eyes. She recognized the look. It was one Sherlock got more often than not. Awe, surprise, but, most predominantly, fear. Stark, cold fear.

"Ah yes. The youngest of the Monroe's, and only 12 years old-"

"It was an accident! I didn't mean for her-" Little Johnny cried out. He fell to his knees, his face full of emotion. Sherlock interrupted him, his voice lacking an reaction to the man's heartfelt cry.

"I wasn't finished. We've barely begun."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and began to glance and type nonchalantly.

"Please, please no more," Little Johnny begged.

"Oh hush. Now, stand up. Answer me this, how is it you are so tan whilst the rest of your…posse, is so pale?"

"What?" Little Johnny asked, his face turned towards Sherlock.

"Your tan and your jet lagged appearance indicate that you have recently been somewhere close to the equator recently. Your hair tips are lighter than your roots, which means you were outside in the sun quite a bit. Enough for the rays to bleach the color out of your hair. And since you are low man on the totem pole when it comes to your biker cohorts, they obviously didn't pay out for any recent tropical vacations, which can only mean you took a private plane or vehicle."

Sherlock turned away from the man who had gone, if possible, even paler. He walked over to the three senior most members of Little Johnny's group.

"Tell me, does your biker ensemble deal in drugs? Specifically cocaine?"

The three stared at Sherlock in astonishment. Finally it was the wife that spoke up.

"Of course not. We try to stop the trafficking of it. The shit killed my mom."

Sherlock grinned. The woman glared at him for a moment before her eyes went wide. She looked past him to seek out Little Johnny.

"L.J., you've been…have you been trafficking?" she hissed. Her husband put and arm around her shoulders not to comfort her, but to hold her back.

"How do you know that is what he's been doing. It's a rough thing to be accusing someone without evidence."

"Oh, but someone in this room has all the evidence I need."

Sherlock grinned turned away from the couple. He sidestepped Little Johhny and stood next to Molly. He caught her eyes, then flicked them away. In only a couple of seconds she stood up and walked away from Sherlock. Rufus and Bobby watched the girl go, then turned their fascinated gazes back on Sherlock.

The man in question began to pace the room again. He looked around at the assembled people. This was his favorite moment. The moment when everything came to a head. This was the cabbie in the room with the bottle of pills. The jade hairpin the secretaries hair. The password on the phone. The maddening fog in the hollow.

This was the fall.

"Earlier this evening I witnessed my dear friend and young mister Little Johnny play a healthy game of billiards. However, during said game a, what I assume is, dear friend of Little Johnny's continuously harassed poor Little Johnny. Now, during a particularly bad plague of shooting in which Little Johnny allowed my friend take multiple 'practice' shots, he pulled his friend off to the side. Whilst everyone was enraptured in my friends terrible billiard skills, I watched as Little Johnny slid a little something to his dear little friend-ah, here we go."

Molly suddenly entered the silent room, which was no longer silent as furious screams ripped through the air from the woman she held in her arms. When Molly let the woman go she turned around to try and scratch Molly, but she was too strong. A quick right hook in the jaw put the woman on the ground. Molly held her chest to the ground with her boot while she dug through her pocket. When she found what she was looking for she tossed it to Sherlock.

"Sorry about that," she said as she stood up. "Girly was hiding in the bathroom. Had a helluva time getting her to let go of the railing. Nearly had to break her fingers."

"No no, your timing impeccable, as always."

"Thank you," Molly grinned, pressing her boot harder onto the girl's chest when she tried to get up.

Sherlock walked down the Little Johnny, who was cowering underneath a vacant table. With a quick swipe he grabbed his pocket knife. He walked over to the three elder bikers and held the bag of white powder, that Molly had acquired for him, out for inspection. The male who wasn't married took the pocket knife and cut into the bag, stuck his pinky in, took a taste and then spit it out just as quickly.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.

"Yes. Pure Colombian, where he has been for, oh, the last 4 more or so. One of your own has been doing the exact thing you have been trying to stop."

"One of our goddamned own," the biker repeated. Sherlock gestured to Molly, who nodded and took her boot off of the girl. She jumped up and tried once more to attack Molly. A sucker punch to the gut took care of that minor inconvenience. Molly walked over to stand beside Sherlock.

"Trust-fund baby couldn't stand the idea that he was now alone with no family, no future, and, especially, no money. He had grown up in luxury, and continued to try and find that luxury. No matter at whose expense."

Sherlock turned to the three senior bikers.

"You may pass judgment."

"Thank you. For exposing this," the married man said. He and the other man walked over the Little Johnny and the girl, picking them up and hauling them out. The woman walked over to Sherlock and Molly.

"You know who you remind me of? That detective from England."

Molly's eyes widened. She looked up at Sherlock. He just grinned sadly.

"Didn't you hear? He was a fraud…and he's dead."

Sherlock turned away and walked out of the bar. Molly walked over to the table where Bobby and Rufus were finishing their drinks.

"I gotta say; that was probably the scariest thing I've ever seen…and I've been married," Rufus said quietly. Molly snorted.

"Welcome to the world of Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

><p>Molly opened the door of the hotel room and spotted Sherlock laying on the bed. She walked over, put her bag on the ground, and sat down on the other side.<p>

"Why did you hustle them?" Sherlock asked out of the blue.

"What do you mean?" she asked him.

"We have the cards that Mycroft gave us. You didn't need that $200," he pointed out.

"No, but…Bobby could. And once I leave…"

"You were looking out for him," he said. She turned to see him grin.

"What's so funny?"

"Even when doing something as naughty as hustling, you still find some reason to make it seem alright."

"Yeah…yeah I'm good at that. You should hear how I justify murder."

Sherlock sat up in surprise. Molly laughed and pushed his shoulder.

"I'm kidding…mostly."

Sherlock shook his head. Molly sat up and told the man to turn while she changed. When she was done she crawled under the covers. Sherlock glanced down at her and she turned off her light.

"You, Molly Hooper, are a secret wrapped in a mystery."

Molly huffed out a laugh.

"You have no idea."

Just as she was starting to nod off she turned to Sherlock, glancing at his from underneath her arm.

"I guess I proved today that I belong in your world as much as you belong in mine."

Sherlock watched Molly as she fell asleep. He pushed off his shoes and pulled the covers over him. Even though they were on opposite sides of the bed he could steal feel her body heat radiating under the covers. Sherlock had never had another person in his bed…but he didn't seem to mind it. He looked down one more time at Molly.

He noticed the way the moonlight broke through the curtains and brushed across her face. He reached out to touch a piece of hair that had fallen across her nose, but pulled back before he made contact.

"Oh Miss Hooper...you have always belonged in my world."

* * *

><p>Across he states, over an ocean, and in a small clinic, John Watson took a sip of his tea as he looked out on the nearly empty break room. He had just finished diagnosing strep throat in a pair of twin children and was looking forward to a reprieve.<p>

"Hey John," Robbie, one of the nurses, greeted John before turning back to his laptop. John walked over to one of the snack machines, trying to decide what to eat. He leaned his forehead against the glass of the machine. He had no appetite, but he knew he needed to eat. Otherwise Mrs. Hudson would _make_ him eat…again.

He jumped when Robbie laughed. He glared at the man.

"Sorry mate. It's just…these guys are great! C'mere and check them out."

John thought about walking away, leaving Robbie to his silly internet videos. It was probably about cats. But something tugged inside, something telling John to go over to the laptop and watch the video. Cradling his tea and pulled over a chair.

"Mate, you look like shit," Robbie remarked on John's under eye bags and generally haggard look.

"…Thanks. Just play the video," he growled. Robbie rolled his eyes.

"Okay, so basically these guys are, like, ghost hunters or something. And usually that sort of crap doesn't interest me, if you catch my drift. But some of this shit is crazy scary! And they really take it seriously!"

"Okay okay, just play the damn video!"

"Woah…touchy," Robbie remarked. He turned to the screen and began playing the video. Two young men, one with curly hair and a bear and the other with smooth black hair, in lab coats began to speak.

"In this video we visit the Barton Manor; a mansion haunted by a young, vengeful woman. This one…well this one affected us far more than most. For one, some of our footage was mysteriously corrupted, leaving us to believe that this spirit not only held a grudge against pregnant women and infants, but also against ghost-hunting bloggers. My _dear_ friend Harry also discovered-"

"I'm going to be a dad! Yeah, I know, crazy!" the dark haired one shouted. John turned his gaze to glare at Robbie.

"Hold on, it totally gets better."

The video continued on to show the foursome getting ready to go into the manor, setting up their equipment, and then getting ready to head out of the main room to find a ghost. They were just getting to a point where the doors suddenly opened when it cut to a black scene.

"See what we mean about corrupt data," a voice sounded out before cutting to another scene. John jumped when he realized he recognized the girl standing in the hall.

"Oh my god…Molly?" he voiced to no one in particular. He stared as the ex-morgue attendant who had turned out to be far more badass than once thought fight off a particularly evil looking female spirit. While Robbie snickered and mentioned something about excellent CGI, John flinched. He knew that, if Molly were there, this wasn't CGI.

But, he wondered, where was Bobby? She had told him, before she left, that she was going to be hunting with her Uncle. That he would have never allowed her to do this on her own.

The next scenes that followed where of the three males disappearing into the basement, when a shout rang out. John began to lose interest as things got more harried, but he nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw the mummified remains of a girl on a dusty old bed. Now he got a good look at Molly as the camera turned up towards her face.

"It is no wonder the girl's spirit is so malevolent," she said softly. She turned her face to the camera and glared at the man holding it. Suddenly the video changed to the camera on its side. You could hear a lot of scuffling coming from inside a bedroom. The camera suddenly moved, righting itself. It turned to rest on the face of the dark haired young man.

"Damn, ghost totally knocked us out. But…I think Molly and Shea are doing major battle with her."

John raised an eyebrow. Never in any of the stories that Molly had told had John ever heard of a Shea. He leaned forward as the camera turned back around. The next series of clips were in flashes. Most involved Molly getting hurt.

Suddenly an unearthly scream issued from the laptop speakers. The camera panned away from Molly and over to where the ghost was disappearing. John spotted something, but suddenly the clip went black.

"Wait! Pause the video!" he shouted. Robbie nearly jumped out of his skin before he leaned forward and paused the video. John reached out a hand.

"Do you mind?" he asked.

"No mate, go ahead. I need a fuckin' smoke after that. Phew, these guys know how to do their ghosts. They need to direct the next paranormal activity or some shit," Robbie's voice disappeared down the hall. John waited until he could no longer hear him before he found the place he wanted. He flinched as the scream issued from the speakers again, but quickly paused the clip before it could cut to black again.

"Oh…oh god," John sat back in the chair. He could feel his throat close up and his eyesight began to blur.

There, in the reflection of the vanity, was the one person in this world John thought he would never see again. Even though his hair was blonde, and his clothing wasn't as posh as usual, John knew.

"Jesus…he's alive. Sherlock Holmes is alive."


	9. My World and Yours Part 2

**Hello darlings! Just a quick note before we move things forward. So I first wanted to thank everyone who reviewed and messaged me! Particularly those of you who told me to get my ass in gear! You are the ones who push me to finish this, and finish this quickly. **

**This chapter had been getting worked on now for about…um…five months. And yes, I do feel bad about that. But now I've gotten the hardest parts out of the way, and so it should be smooth sailing from here.**

**As always, I own neither Sherlock nor Supernatural, merely this gorgeous mash up of the two.**

**Don't want to leave a long note now, so that you can continue with the story! I will be, however, leaving a quick note at the end. Loves from Craven!**

**P.S. If anyone is good at fan art (not meeee!) I would love some fan art of my story. If anyone decides to do something send me a message and I will send you my email. I will use it as my cover art (neat new little feature!) and give credit where credit is due! **

* * *

><p>Morning came far faster than the hunters, bunked in their motel rooms, wished. Molly blinked as the sun glared through the thin curtains. She groaned and stretched out on the bed, smiling in satisfaction as her back popped. She turned and frowned.<p>

"Sherlock?" she asked, pushing herself out of the bed. She looked around the dingy motel room. No sign of the gangly detective anywhere. She walked to the bathroom and knocked on the door, but no answer came from within. She quickly pulled on the jeans from the night before and a black tank top. She was just starting to lace up her boots when the door opened.

"Sherlock, where were you?" she nearly shouted at the man. He looked on at her in surprise, and then down at the coffees in his hands.

"Is it not obvious? I couldn't sleep," he stated. It was then she noticed the slight darkness under his eyes that he hadn't had in a while. Forcing the man to sleep had done well for not just his mental wellbeing, but also his complexion. She reached out and took one of the coffees clearly marked with her name. She inhaled the heady aroma of the black coffee before taking a sip. Sherlock put his coffee on the table.

"I also discovered your uncle is not the nicest person in the mornings, particularly with a hangover."

Molly smiled, remembering all of the times she had tried to wake up Bobby during one of his prize winning hangovers.

"Your Uncle also said that, once we find the nest, you and I are on surveillance."

Molly groaned.

"Oh I _hate_ surveillance!" she moaned. Sherlock grinned absently as he began to change from one of the heavy flannels into something lighter, better suited to being outside in Mexico's heat. Molly looked on, her expression turning into curiosity.

"If there is something you wish to say…" Sherlock stated his back still to the woman. She turned away when his shirt came off, but continued to glance over at his bare back.

"Just…interesting."

"My _back_ is interesting?" he scoffed. Molly rolled her eyes.

"Just the fact that you have taken to this-all of this- so well."

"If you mean that I've taken to your world so well, how else did you wish for me to take it?"

"Don't know," she said honestly. Sherlock turned, his eyebrows knitted together.

"'Don't know', is grammatically incorrect, and also makes no sense. What do you mean?"

Molly pressed her lips together.

"I guess I just wasn't expecting someone like you, someone so _logical_, to follow in something so…_illogical_. And take it so well at that."

Sherlock watched at Molly for a minute, studying her like her used to when she was still Morgue Attendant Molly. She shifted uncomfortable under his gaze.

"I'm far more adaptable than you seem to give me credit for," he finally whispered. He turned away and pulled on a white t-shirt before pulling on a light button up over it. Molly sighed into her hand.

"That isn't what you meant though," he stated. Molly's eyes flashed over to him. She reached over and picked up her coffee before standing up.

"I need to go make sure Rufus and Bobby are up, and then we can go."

Sherlock watched the woman leave. It still marveled him to this day how this confidant, strong, stubborn woman had somehow hidden herself away completely. How she had been able to wrap herself in the guise of a woman the exact opposite of what he saw now.

And how this Molly, this confidant, strong, stubborn woman, could drive him crazier and leave him far more confused than he had ever felt in his life.

He shook his head and finished getting dressed. He entered the bathroom and picked up both of their toiletries. Bobby had warned Sherlock through his hangover annoyance that they more than likely wouldn't be coming back. He made sure to also fish his passport out of his pack and put it in his pocket. When Molly finally reentered the hotel room it took a mere five minutes before they were pulling out of the parking lot in Bobby's car and on the highway.

Twenty minutes later found them at a border crossing. It wasn't extremely busy, but it took them long enough to get through that Sherlock became extremely bored. And boredom was not a good thing when it came to Sherlock.

"Stop it Sherlock," Molly said for the umpteenth time. Sherlock didn't even spare her a glance, just rolled his eyes and continued to stare out of the window. They were near the entrance of the crossing, only about three cars back.

"Sherlock," Molly warned.

"Molly, I haven't done anything," he finally snapped at her. She grinned.

"I know, but you were thinking about it."

"Was not," he muttered. He flipped the collar of his coat up and slid down the seat. Molly glanced down at him before rolling her eyes. She inched forward a bit more, then put the car in park and sighed. She dug through her pocket and pulled out her phone. She was checking the time when she noticed a missed call.

"Oi, Sherlock, did I miss a call this morning?" she asked. Sherlock continued to glare out of the windshield, but she saw him shrug slightly.

"Might have been when I was getting coffee," he stated. She pulled up the list of calls she had missed. Her eyebrow rose.

"Who is it?" Sherlock asked. Molly flicked her eyes up at him. He regarded her for a moment.

"It was him, wasn't it…John. John called you."

Molly nodded. She pretended not to notice the way his shoulders tensed up and or when his jaw clenched.

"Are you going to call him?" Sherlock asked. Molly glared down at the cell phone. She thought about it. Maybe it was an emergency. Maybe something had happened to John, or Mrs. Hudson, or even Officer Lestrade.

She moved her thumb to the call trigger when she heard a car horn blare loudly behind her. Molly jumped and quickly put the car in gear when she saw that there was now only one car ahead of her and a rather large gap between. She pulled up just as the car was pulling away.

"Remember Sherlock; we are tourists from the UK. We have no weapons and nothing to declare…particularly you."

"Yes dear," he stated as he rolled down the window and handed out his passport. The guards studied their passports, glanced around the car, and then waved the two through. Molly let out a breath that she hadn't realized she had been holding. Sherlock didn't look fazed, only slightly less bored.

It took them 3 hours to drive out to where they were all going to meet later. It was the home of a former hunter, long since dead, but who had left his home as a sort of 'safe house' for hunters. It was hidden, out of the way, and surrounded by enough rock and desert shrub to make sure that, unless it was specifically being looked for, it wouldn't be used by unsavory folk.

Molly and Sherlock deposited their things in the house and took a quick inventory of what they would need. Molly pulled a bag full of plants and went outside to a small fire pit and began to light a fire.

"Sherlock, look through my pack. Look for a jar marked Dead Man's Blood," she hollered into the house as she blew on the coals to get the fire hotter. Once she was satisfied that it was hot enough she placed the plant on top of the coals.

"Molly, why do you have a jar of blood in your pack?" Sherlock asked. Molly looked up to see Sherlock giving her a strange look, the jar of blood in his hand.

"It kills vamps. We'll fill up some syringes with it, and then, if a vamp attacks you-"she mimicked stabbing before turning back to the fire.

"Alright, that makes…sense. But why are you burning those plans, and what is that god-awful stench?"

"Skunkweed, Saffron, and Trillium. When it comes to vamps this is the best thing to use to mask your scent. Vampires have a really excellent sense of smell. This crap will help disguise our scent."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"Lovely," he drawled before going back into the house.

* * *

><p>Almost an hour later they were nearly ready to go. Sherlock stared at himself in the mirror in front of him. Never before had he felt so…out of place. He looked ragged, worn, and nothing like his old self. He took in a deep breath. He felt different. Strange.<p>

He stared at the reflection, taking in everything. He had abandoned his coat in exchange for a light flannel that was rolled up past his elbows, exposing his wiry forearms. He had unbuttoned it ages ago, when the sun's heat had finally begun to get to him. He was far too used to the in climate weather of Britain. He had on a pair of slightly worn jeans that were being held up around his frame by a thick leather belt. However, instead of décor or designs on the belt there were leather loops that held syringes full of dark, thick blood; four on either side. Resting on his right side was his pistol. He shifted and felt it pressed firmly against his leg. He reached up and touched the leather strap that rested across his torso. In the mirror he could just make out the butt of a machete. Molly had fished it out of a closet in the old hunter's home. She had stated that if you couldn't get the blood into them fast enough, a quick beheading would do the job just as well.

Sherlock then reached up and touched his face. He pulled his hand away, grimacing at the fine layer of ash that had been liberally applied his skin. He looked almost sickly, and his hair now had a fine dusting of grey that hadn't been there that morning. Sherlock took in a deep breath.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you alright?" Molly entered the room and stopped when she saw the man in question standing in front of the mirror. Sherlock glanced at her.

"I'm fine," he muttered. She, like he, was outfitted for war. However, unlike him, the dusting of ash and weapons strapped about her made her seem far more…warrior like. With two guns, multiple syringes around her belt, a machete, and the odd two way radio strapped to her, she was ready for action. She stepped beside him, her face full of concern.

"You aren't fine," she sated.

"Brilliant deduction."

"Oh hush Sherlock," she rolled her eyes and gently rapped him in the chest with the back of her hand. They stood there in silence for a moment more before she turned and began to walk out of the room.

"Molly…wait," he said slowly. Molly turned. She felt a deep sense of déjà vu as she looked on at Sherlock.

"Yes?"

"I…I was wrong," he stated simply.

"I know," she said. She walked back over to him, ignoring his look of surprise.

"Oh?" was his answer. Molly sighed.

"Sherlock, this is getting ridiculous. We are both hiding things, silly things, because we are both to stubborn to say anything."

Molly glared at him through the mirror, before turning to lean against the sink. She glared up at Sherlock and crossed her arms. He rolled his eyes at her.

"Stop it Sherlock. Look, I've known since your first hunt that this would happen."

"What do you mean?" he asked nonchalantly.

"I mentioned earlier that you were taking this all too well, which you were. It is one thing to read about it in books, or to be exposed to it once or twice. But to lead your life like this…particularly when one is so logical that it borders…no, that it _is_ annoying…well it begins to take its toll on you. Not just physically, but mentally as well. You begin to wonder how this can all be real. How this can be such a constant in life, and yet you had never heard about it before until now."

Sherlock pretended to not pay attention, but the way his shoulders had tensed and the way he vein in his neck throbbed signaled to Molly that he was listening, and raptly at that.

"It takes its toll on all of us. Ghosts, vampires, banshees…these are all things that don't make sense in our world. Fables. Fairy tales. Stories told around a camp fire. But here they are, and here we are. You can be as strong in mind as you wish, Sherlock. But sooner or later it begins to take its toll on all of us."

"How did you know it was beginning to affect me?" Sherlock asked after Molly went silent.

"Yesterday…you had no reason to say anything to that guy at the bar. We would have chased him off. He was a coward. But you very nearly ruined him. I watched you. You weren't just enjoying deducing what he had done, you were desperate for it. For some sense of normalcy… or what can be considered normal in your book."

Sherlock smiled slightly at that, but his smile went away as he caught his reflection in the mirror again. Molly stood beside him again and placed her hand on his arm, squeezing softly to let him know that she was there.

"I was the same way. I was much younger, though, and not nearly as…logical."

They stood in silence for a moment longer. Just as Molly was getting ready to walk away again Sherlock roused himself from his thoughts.

"How did you get through it?" he asked her. He looked down at Molly, meeting her eyes steadily. She blinked quickly but didn't look away.

"I got through it by keeping the people I cared about most close to me. I turned to them when I was at my lowest. And, over time, it became easier to accept this mad world."

Sherlock stared at Molly.

"Who was it that you kept close to you?" he asked. Molly cocked an eyebrow.

"Well, Bobby, obviously. But also Dean and Sam. I would turn to them, talk to them, when all of this became too much. They helped me to accept it all."

"But now they aren't here anymore," he stated. Molly sighed sadly.

"No…no they aren't," she said. She looked up at Sherlock.

"Just know, Sherlock, that you can turn to me. If you are having problems, any problems, you can come to me."

Sherlock reached up and placed his hand gently on hers. He caught the look of confusion that passed across her face.

"I already have," he stated calmly. She dropped her hand suddenly, catching Sherlock off guard.

"We…we should go. Before the vampires move on," she said hurriedly. She practically ran out of the room as Sherlock looked on.

* * *

><p>"Is this the place?" Sherlock asked as he peeked over the rocky ledge the two were stationed on. Molly nodded, pulling her gun from its holster and checking the bullets.<p>

"What are you doing? Bobby said to wait until nightfall," Sherlock whispered to the girl. She rolled her eyes and pulled the two way radio off of her belt to hand to him. He took it from her.

"I just want to make sure this is the correct place. If Bobby says anything, just tell him I'm all right. Stay here and keep lookout," she said softly. She inched forward and was soon out of Sherlock's sight. He watched over the ridge until he finally spied her. She ran up to the old warehouse style building.

Sherlock had deduced when they first stumbled upon the old ramshackle building that this was used by those getting ready to cross the border. It was perfect. Secluded, abandoned, and big enough to house many people at one time.

Sherlock held the machete in one hand and the gun in the other as he watched Molly dart to the back of the building. She moved a crate and went to stand on it. She peeked in through a dirty window, and then quickly jumped off of the crate and ran back up the hill. Sherlock turned around and leaned against the outcropping.

"What did you see?" he asked when she sat down next to him. She put her gun away and leaned against the rock with him.

"Sleeping, the lot of them. I counted at least fourteen vamps, and eight or ten people tied up against one of the walls."

"I'm assuming the ones tied up are the human 'snacks' we were told about," he stated with a grimace.

"Seems like it," was Molly's reply. She pulled off her thin jacket, leaving her in a brown shirt that was already starting to darken with sweat around the neck line.

"Why don't we attack them now?" Sherlock asked. He had been wondering this since he had been told by Bobby that he and Molly were to be on surveillance.

"Because the entire horde is in there. If we were to attack now we would be at a disadvantage. What we were thinking is that, with how large of a group they are, they would know to keep subtle and try to keep off of our radar. And they hadn't done too bad…until recently. But now we need to try and thin them out before we attack. More than likely they will send people out at sundown to check the area before they move on. At least, that is the assumption we are going on right now."

Sherlock nodded his approval at this idea.

"What did you mean when you said they had stayed off of the hunters' radar until now?" he asked.

"When they stopped off in Louisiana a couple of weeks ago they kidnapped the two youngest kids of an ex hunter. I met her, when I was a kid. She was nice. But, according to Bobby, one of these vamps in here had it out for her. I think she murdered his mate, or something. Anyway, they decided to take her kids, so she put out the red alert."

"Are her children alive?" Sherlock asked. Molly's eyes slid over to his form.

"Don't know. I hope so," she said. Then she looked up at Sherlock, her eyebrow cocked.

"Why do you care? You don't normally care about those sorts of things."

"Things change. People change," was his reply. Molly stared at Sherlock. He was glaring into the distant desert, his eyes glazed and dark.

"It's your turn," he said unexpectedly.

"What?"

"Earlier, you told me that you would tell me what has been bothering you if I told you what was wrong with me. And it seems like we have plenty of time here."

Molly hated it when he made sense. She pulled her legs up and rested her arms on her knees, before she sighed.

"I've been thinking…worrying…about what would happen when this was all over."

Sherlock frowned. Yet again this woman was catching him off guard. He hated the fact that he couldn't read her. But, he had come to realize, he had to take what he could get from her.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean; what happens if we find Moriarty. If we defeat him, for real this time. Do we just…go back to how we were before? "

"Well…yes. I guess."

Molly huffed and looked down at the ground. It was now or never, she realized. They had finally come to that pinnacle, sitting in the desert next to a warehouse full of vampires.

Would they go back to being Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and Molly Hooper, morgue attendant? And, more importantly, would they go back to the cautious glances, the callous remarks, and the undeniable sense that one was ignoring the other.

She couldn't.

She wouldn't.

She refused.

"Well…maybe I don't want it too," she said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in surprise.

Inside she was beating herself up. I finally say something, she thought to herself, and I can't even get it out the way I wanted it too. I wanted it to sound strong. To make an impact!

She could feel a blush start to work its way across her face. She groaned and put her head in her hands, her gun pointed away from her face.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was staring down at Molly. He had always known that she had fancied him, back in the days when she was still morgue attendant Molly. He had always felt her eyes on him. Her attempts to invite him out to coffee, when she would be wearing lipstick one second and none the next, or just the emotions that flashed across her face when he was in the same room.

He hadn't been blind, only…unfeeling. Uncaring. It wasn't that he hadn't fancied her. It was that he didn't know how. He didn't know how to feel towards her. She was just Molly Hooper, the girl who had allowed him to experiment on bodies in the morgue without as much as a second thought. The girl who had allowed him to run tests in St. Bart's labs, even though she could have gotten in quite a lot of trouble for doing it. The girl that Sherlock could smile at and he would inevitably get his way.

Molly Hooper was the girl…no, the woman, who had saved him. More than once.

Who had helped him when he was at his lowest, at his most vulnerable? And she had never, ever taken advantage of him. Ever.

"Well…maybe I don't want it too either," he said simply. Molly glanced up at him in surprise. He looked down at her.

"You don't?" she whispered.

"No," he smiled down at her. She stared at him a moment more before she smiled back at him. Before she could think about she made a split fast decision. She reached out and gently took his hand in hers. She felt him flinch involuntarily, but he didn't pull away.

Sherlock stared down at their conjoined hands. He could feel the calluses on her hands and deduced they were from holding a gun and multiple types of knives. He slowly ran his thumb down a scar on her thumb joint and felt her shiver next to him.

"_Where you two at? Over._"

Molly and Sherlock both jumped, tearing their hands out of each other's grasp. Molly fumbled around until she could pull the radio out.

"Bobby, we're on the northwest ridge overlooking the warehouse. I spotted at least fourteen vamps, and around eight hostages. Over."

Sherlock marveled at how she could switch over from emotional to businesslike in a split second. She, in that sense, reminded him of himself more and more. The job came first.

"Sherlock, you are going to take the west side. I'm going north. If you see a vamp, take them out. If there are more than two, stay back and signal me. And do try to not die," was her finishing statement. Sherlock stood up and took off down the ridge until he was facing the west side of the building. He hid himself behind a mound of what looked like dried shrubbery.

Slowly Sherlock looked down at his hand. He could remember, not even a month ago, taking John's hand in his hand. Grasping it tight in desperation.

This was desperation, but not…not the same. With John it had been because their hands were handcuffed and the opposing forces of their arms were forcing them to stumble. They couldn't afford to stumble. Time was of the essence. This time there were no handcuffs, but…

* * *

><p><em>Footsteps<em>

Sherlock ducked further down behind the stone. He could hear footsteps coming towards him. He felt that blind spark of panic, the rushing thoughts, wondering if they had spotted him. He took a deep breath, calming himself as he had always done when he thought he or John were in trouble…or about to be in trouble.

They were slow, precise. Not rushed, not maddened. They were scouting, like Molly had said.

Slowly Sherlock peeked over the rock and nearly grinned at his dumb luck. The vampire, for he was obviously a vampire if he blood stains down his front were anything to go by, was standing only ten feet away. His back was turning and he was lazily swinging a large knife against his side.

Sherlock reached down to his belt and pulled one of the vials from his belt. He reached slowly over the stone until he was able to pull himself up.

He gradually stepped up until he was right behind the vampire. He positioned himself so that, as soon as the needle was in the vamp, he could push down on the syringe and make a break for it.

He reached forward, trying to ignore the beads of sweat rolling down his neck and forehead. The tip of the needle grazed the vampire's shirt.

A scream broke the silence of the impending night.

Both Sherlock and the vampire jumped. The vampire spun around and, for a moment made eye contact with Sherlock.

For a heartbeat nothing happened. The two men, one human and one not-so-much, stared at each other. Neither breathed. Neither moved.

Sherlock clenched his hand around the syringe as another scream issued from the warehouse. The vampire dropped the human façade as long, needle-like fangs issued from his gums. He lashed out, but Sherlock was quicker. He jammed the syringe in the vampire's neck just as he descended onto Sherlock's arm. Sherlock but his lip to keep from yelling out at the vampire fell to the ground, the dead man's blood taking effect. He ripped another syringe out of his belt and ran down the hillside. He sprinted around the warehouse and stopped, his eyes widening in surprise.

For two old men, Rufus and Bobby were spry. They stood back to back, heaving heavily, as they fought off four vampires at once. Sherlock was about to run over to help them when Bobby spotted him.

"We're good! Help Molly!"

"Where is she?" Sherlock yelled back.

"Where do you think, ya idgit!" Bobby yelled before lopping off a female vampires head. Sherlock nodded and ran inside of the warehouse.

"_Sherlock, look out!_" he heard a female voice yell. He turned just as another vampire, a blonde female, dove off of a stack of boxes. Sherlock turned away, dodging the creature. Without missing a beat she landed on her hands and sprung up onto her feet. Sherlock took up a defensive position, but she was too quick. Before he could stab her with the vial she had him by the throat. She knocked the vial of blood from his hand. He noticed her eyes travel down to his blood soaked arm, before she met his eyes again. Her fangs slid out to cover her teeth and her hand tightened around his throat. Sherlock began to see spots in his eyes. He grasped her wrist with a weakening grip.

"Hey bitch!"

Sherlock glanced over at the same time as the vampire woman. Molly stood in front of the two. Sherlock's eyes widened at the sight of Molly; her face and jacket were spattered with dark red blood. Her machete was dripping beside her.

"Let 'im go," she growled. The blonde hissed and threw Sherlock to the side. She dove after Molly. Molly wrenched her machete back and, like a grade-a swinger, took off the blondes head without a second thought. Sherlock took Molly's hand that she offered to him.

"Where have you been? Party has been raging without you," she said, two bright spots of red on her cheeks. Her eyes were alight, her chest heaving. He could almost feel the adrenaline coursing off of her. Without letting go of his hand Molly dragged Sherlock over to a small huddle of people. Sherlock looked down upon the people; three women, two men, and two children were all that was left of the people who had been kept as meals. Sherlock noticed the men and women huddled around each other, shaking and murmuring in their native tongues.

He counted two people of Mexican heritage, more than likely a married couple by the look of their bond around each other, a Chinese man, and two dark haired women who may have been sisters, but were more than likely a mother and daughter who had far too much plastic surgery in their lives. Standing in front of the huddle were two younger children; an older girl and very young boy.

Sherlock had never interacted much with children. He had never cared too; children couldn't provide adequate information during an investigation. Their minds were bogged down with an overabundance of fear and imagination. A 6'1" burglar could become a ten foot tall monster in the eyes of a child. Lestrade or John almost always pulled Sherlock away and spoke to the children themselves.

* * *

><p>"<em>Why won't you allow me to interview the witness?" Sherlock hissed at Lestrade. The day had already started bad; an experiment had gone, in John's opinion, horribly wrong, a mug of tea had been spilled on one of Molly's hunter books that she was loaning out, and Mycroft had shown up for some tedious reason. And now Lestrade had taken Sherlock away from a school girl who had witnessed her friend getting kidnapped. <em>

"_Because, Sherlock, kids are sensitive. You aren't. Just let John talk to her."_

_Sherlock scoffed as he looked down his nose at the girl. Her school uniform was splattered with water from a nearby puddle that the van had driven through, but her sleeved were soaked in her own tears. She kept wiping her running nose on her sleeve until John finally handed her a hankie he kept on hand for emergencies. Sherlock sneered._

"_Kelly, tell me again. Do you remember what the van looked like?" John asked the girl, barely loud enough for Sherlock to hear. The girl, Kelly, just shook her head and continued to cry into her sleeves. John got down on level with her, eye to eye. Sherlock watched him take her hand, an air of calm surrounding him. _

"_Kelly, everything is going to be okay. Do you understand?" he said slowly, softly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John repeated himself again and once more before the girl finally nodded. John smiled at her._

"'_Atta girl. Now, do you remember what color the van was?"_

* * *

><p>Sherlock looked down upon the two children. Both had bright blonde hair, obviously siblings. The girl was about ten, or possibly a tall eight year old. The boy was young, no more than four or five. The girl stood protectively in front of her brother, one hand hidden behind her back while the other clenched in a fist.<p>

"Sherlock, keep an eye on them. I need to go help Bobby and Rufus," Molly hollered before running away. Sherlock glanced after her before turning back to the children. He watched the boy stick his thumb in his mouth and clutch a small, torn _thing_ to his chest. Sherlock could feel the fear rolling off of the two children in waves.

John isn't here, he thought to himself. He bent down to eye level with the girl. Her pale eyebrows rose to her hairline at his action.

"It's going to be okay," he said with a forced smile. The little girl's eyes widened, and then she opened her mouth.

"Are you _freaking_ mental?" she hollered, her words heavily accented with a southern twang. Sherlock rocked back on his heels in surprise.

"You are s'possed to be keepin' us safe, and here you are tryin' to _comfort_ us? Where'd Molly find ya at?" she stated. Sherlock stood up quickly, his shock fading to one of annoyance. He leveled a glare at her but, unlike most children, she matched him toe-to-tip with her attitude. Suddenly the little boy was yelling out and pointing in front of them.

"_Sissy!_" he screamed. The girl and Sherlock turned at the same time to see a dark haired vamp running towards them, fangs unsheathed. Sherlock reached for his belt and cursed as he hands reached for the nonexistent hypos of dead man's blood. He looked around for something he could use as a weapon.

Sherlock heard the shots reach his ears, the sharp percussions reverberating throughout the nearly silent warehouse, before he saw the vamp fall to the ground. He turned and started. The blonde girl hyperventilated slightly, the beginnings of panic setting in, and her hands shook as she held the gun up. Her brother clutched his arms around her waist and buried his face in her side. Sherlock stared at the slight girl. Even though she shook with fear and adrenaline, her face was set in a grimace; Sherlock knew that look. He got that look when someone was threatening John or Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock stepped forward slowly, but raised his hands when the girl trained the gun on him. She just as quickly dropped her arms, the gun at her side and an apologetic look on her face.

"Good shot," was all Sherlock could say. The girl shrugged.

"M'mom taught me."

"Where did you get it?" he asked as he inched closer to her. She looked up at him and a small grin formed on her face.

"Took it from ya when you was telling how all this was gonna be alright," she held out the gun, and Sherlock recognized it as the one he had kept at his side. He reached back and discovered the empty holster.

"Cheeky," he muttered as he took the gun back from the girl, but didn't holster it. She sighed deeply and wrapped an arm around her younger brother.

"Sherlock!" he heard Molly yell as she came running over.

"I heard shots," she said as she stopped in front of him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and used his chin to point behind her. She glanced at the dead vamp, but turned back quickly.

"Sherlock there's something you need to see," she said calmly, but Sherlock could detect a note of excitement and fear in her voice.

"What about the others?"

"Bobby and Rufus are on their way over to gather everyone up. We've wiped out almost all of the vamps."

"Almost?" he asked. She nodded and took his hand, dragging him away from the others. They stopped in front of Bobby and Rufus. Bobby was taking a swig from a flask and Rufus was shaking his head.

"This is a bad idea Molly," Rufus said. Molly barely spared him a glance as he and Bobby walked over to the survivors.

"Molly, what is this about?" Sherlock asked hesitantly. He felt…nervous. Something was amiss. Something strange.

"Sherlock, do you remember when you first began interacting with Moriarty?"

"When you introduced him to me as your boyfriend?" Sherlock asked. He felt Molly tense up beside him, and only realized after he said it that it probably wasn't a good thing to say to a woman with a gun in her hand and knowledge on how to use it.

"After _that_," she growled through her teeth.

"The incident involving strapping bombs to strangers and forcing me to solve cases?"

"Good guess. Better guess."

"What about it?"

In answer Molly led Sherlock out of the warehouse and around the side. He glanced around at the decimated and decapitated bodies that littered the area. She walked a big more until they came upon a body. It was seated on the ground, its back against the wall. Sherlock noticed two rather large knives held it in place against the wall of the barn.

"Is this what you wanted me to see?"

Molly nodded. Sherlock bent down to get a better look at the body.

"Sherlock, I wouldn't-"

The body lunged at Sherlock, its arms reaching for the man. After a momentary stab of panic, Sherlock up righted himself. He could tell, by the teeth and the fact that it was still alive even though its wounds were very obviously fatal, it was a vampire.

The vampire, a male, slumped back against the wall. His teeth slid back into his gums, and he closed his eyes. Now that Sherlock got a better look, he could see that the vampire was no more than a boy, maybe ten or eleven years old. His eyes, once he opened them, told a different story.

The boy reached up and brushed some stray auburn hairs from his face, and glared up at Sherlock and Molly.

"Can I help you both? Can't a man die in peace?" he asked. Sherlock started at his accent; he was from England, London according to his accent.

"Hush, you," Molly said softly. She looked down upon him, her expression a mixture of pity and disgust.

"Well, get on with it then. Ask me what you will," he said softly. Sherlock shot Molly a questioning look, but she ignored him.

"First off, do you know this man?" she asked the boy, nodding her head over to Sherlock. He glanced up at Sherlock, who was instantly drawn to the gaze. He had never seen such old, sad eyes that belonged to someone so young looking.

"Nah, don't believe I do," he said after a moment.

"This is Sherlock Holmes," she said softly. Sherlock watched as recognition dawned on the boy's face.

"Oh, no way," he turned to face Sherlock. "So you're the one who figured out who murdered me!"

Sherlock's brows furrowed. He took a deep breath, but his brain, normally very quick, had become addled and slowed. He almost wondered, for a moment, if what he had heard was what the boy said.

"I'm…I'm sorry. What?"

"Introduce yourself," Molly urged. The boy glared up at Molly as if to say 'in my own time, woman,' before turning to Sherlock.

"Pleased to meet you Sherlock Holmes. I'm Carl Powers."

**Just a quick word; so I've had a couple of messages addressing the fact that Sherlock is quite a bit OOC in this story. I have tried to keep the characters as closely in character as possible (accepting Molly, for obvious reasons). So I just wanted to address those concerns. I did think this out for a while, before actually writing the story, about how someone like Sherlock would react to all of this. And I decided that someone who has lived in a logical little bubble their entire life would probably have a major freak out at something as illogical as the supernatural/paranormal actually existing. He just shows it in a different way than most would. I hope that helps explain it, somewhat, but I promise I do try to keep with the character as closely as possible. **

**Craven**


	10. My World and Yours Part 3

**I am soooo sorry everyone! I know it has been forever since I updated, and I want to thank you guys for not losing faith in me! I've had a bunch of people messaging me asking when I would update. And, again, I am deeply sorry it has taken this long. Life has been more than a little hectic lately. And, to tell you the truth, that awesome little plot bunny that has been pushing me kind of fizzled out for a while. But my writers block seems to be taking a siesta, so we will take advantage of that. Plus there are only a few more chapters left to go! So I will be getting to work on those asap. My goal is to have this story done by the new year! Just in time for the 3rd season of Sherlock, no?**

**Anyway, thank you again to all of my awesome readers. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock or Supernatural**

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock Holmes stood nearby, his uniform standing out against the huddled masses around him and marking him as the young school boy who didn't belong. He watched as the two paramedics pulled the body bag out of the pool building and into the ambulance. His mind raced a mile a minute, piecing together everything he observed.<em>

"_Someone told me the boy drowned. Poor mite," he heard a woman say nearby. _

"_-was just a boy," a man's voice sounded behind him. Sherlock began walking through the crowd, never taking his eyes off of the body. He tuned his ears to try and pick up other voices, other gossip, anything that could be useful._

"_Oi, did you see him spaz out?" he turned to see another small group of school boys. He grimaced and sighed before trying to school his features into that of a scared young man._

"_What the bleedin' 'ell 'appened?" he asked, his voice taking on a husky northern bur. He gestured at the body nearby. The boys looked on at him apprehensively before making an opening in their little huddle. _

"_We went to school with him. His name is Carl Powers," one of the boys said. Sherlock's eyes widened, but inside he scoffed. As if he didn't already know that little bit of information._

"_I saw him! When he, you know, drowned," one of the other boys said. All eyes turned to him, and his ears turned a shade of red that matched the hair atop his head. _

"_Yeah, I saw him start having some, like, fit. And then he was just…facing down in the water. It was...terrible!"_

"_D'you think it could 'ave been murder?" Sherlock asked suddenly, interrupting the boys monologue. The other boys turned to him to eye him in shock and, in some, suspicion. He closed his mouth quickly, only just realizing what he had just said._

"_Are you mad? It was just a drowning!"_

_Sherlock sighed and turned away from the boys in annoyance. He walked over until he stood just beside the ambulance that held the body of the boy._

"_I _know_ he was murdered. But how…"_

* * *

><p>"Carl Powers…but that's impossible!" Sherlock said, his voice shaking slightly. Molly glanced up at him in worry, but his attention was solely on the young vampire in front of him. Carl shrugged.<p>

"Not as impossible as you would think," he said. He glanced down at the blade skewering him to the wall and reached up slowly to pull it out. A gun barrel was suddenly resting on his forehead.

"Don't think about it Carl. Otherwise this buckshot goes clean through your forehead," Molly said softly. Sherlock tore his eyes away from Carl to glance at Molly, an eyebrow rising into his hairline. She noticed his glance and shrugged slightly. He turned his attention back to Carl.

"How did you survive?" Sherlock finally asked. Carl shrugged and winced.

"I didn't," he stated bluntly.

"Obviously. But how are you _here_?" Sherlock emphasized. Carl glared up at the man, before his expression became bored.

"I could tell you, but what do I get out of it?" he asked. Sherlock ground his teeth together in frustration. But before he could spit out any remark, Molly cut in.

"Carl, you heard me talking about Moriarty. You helped us because you wanted answers. Now start answering our questions."

Carl growled, his needle fangs sliding from his gums, but Molly stood her ground. Sherlock shot a confused look over at Molly. She pulled the gun away from Carl's head and the vampire relaxed a fraction.

"When I went to help Bobby and Rufus, we got surrounded by the last of the vamps. I…made a joke, and Carl here overheard," she said, her gaze traveling up to Sherlock.

"A joke?"

"I said that, after fighting these idiots, Moriarty would be easy. Carl just…took out one of the vamps next to him-"

"And when I was done helping these ungrateful louts, this bitch here skewered me like a piece of meat," Carl interrupted, his intense glare shifting between the two. Sherlock narrowed his eyes but didn't say anything.

"You are still a vampire," she stated.

"And you are still a hunter; one of the most paranoid species in the world, if I'm not mistaken."

"I think we have every right to be paranoid," Molly countered, holding out her arm and rolling up her sleeve to reveal a rather gruesome bite mark. Carl grinned and Sherlock noticed the slight red tint to his fangs.

"Whoops. Got a bit carried away," he licked his teeth to emphasize his point. Sherlock felt anger well up inside him.

"For _gods' sake_, will you two _shut up_!" he yelled. Molly jumped as Sherlock threw himself down and grabbed Carl's shoulders. A small cry of pain slipped between his lips as Sherlock jostled him.

"Now, Carl Powers, tell me _how_ you are still walking upon this earth!"

"My cousin was a hunter! Now let me go!" Carl shouted, his immaturity coming out through the haze of pain. It took Molly a moment to remember that the boy had barely been into his teens when he was killed. She strode forward and gently placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, adding enough pressure to give him the hint. Sherlock didn't acknowledge her touch but he did stand up and move away from the vampire. Carl hissed in pain and groaned, his face going a bit grey around the edges.

"What do you mean Carl?" Molly asked. Sherlock moved away from her to stand nearby, he back to them and his hands steepled under his chin. Carl glared up at her but he opened his mouth to speak.

"My cousin was a hunter. Not a good one, but not bad. When he found out I had died, he felt bad for my parents. I was their only kid, see. He told them there were a couple different ways to bring me back. They could sell their souls to get me back-"

Sherlock glanced over at Molly, who flinched at Carl's mention.

"-or they could try and turn me. They were…selfish people. They weren't willing to make a deal. But they thought that, if they could change me, then they would be able to control me. My cousin killed a vamp and brought a bunch of blood. I don't remember any of this, since I was dead and all, but from what my parents told me they had to steal my body from the morgue. And then they hooked me up and ran vamp blood through my body for almost 17 hours. And, just as they were giving up, I was born…er, reborn."

Molly rolled her eyes as Carl grinned up at her, his fangs once more sliding out to cover his normal teeth.

"So after that, I'm assuming they weren't able to control you?"

"Nah, they did. For a bit, anyway."

"For a bit-"Molly began.

"Until I wanted to try some…fresh blood. Packaged stuff only gets you so far."

Molly breathed out through her nose, a loud sound amidst the sudden quiet. Sherlock could sense how angry she was; her hunters' sense of justice was over powering her scientific sense of curiosity. Sherlock turned back to the vampire. He got down on one knee and came face to face with Carl. He studied the creature for a moment.

"I have all the answers I need. You can kill him now Molly," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. He watched as Carl's face dropped.

"_What_?! No! You can't…you couldn't-"

"As you said, Molly is a Hunter. How many vampires do you think she has killed? How many in just today alone. Now, unless you can provide me with something that I don't know, we are done here."

Molly glanced at Sherlock, an eyebrow rising in curiosity. He just turned away from the both of them and began walking away. She adopted a bored look on her face as she turned back to Carl.

"Wait! _Wait!_ I…I know you can't have everything! You can't know everything! Do you know about the demon?!"

Sherlock stopped and turned back around as Molly stared at Carl in alarm.

"Now, Carl Powers, tell us everything. Leave out any detail and I will know."

* * *

><p>"It was great, at first. I was just…wondering the streets. My parents had kept me locked up in the house for almost five years. I was bored. I wanted out.<p>

I fed on the streets, taking the homeless and the destitute. There were a lot around my home at the time. But…they started learning. They started figuring out that it wasn't safe around there anymore. So I had to start moving out. Farther and farther, trying to find prey to satisfy my need.

One day there was this…ringing in my ears. Like voices, but not, you know? It was seductive. I wanted to follow them. I…I just remember showing up at this warehouse one day. And the voices, they were louder. They were invading my thoughts, my every moment. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't hunt, and I couldn't feed. I was in love. In lust. In torment, by these goddamn voices.

I walked into the warehouse, and suddenly my…my entirety. I was whole. And there he was, just standing there. This…god. He was my God. I was…whole when we looked upon me. I remember kneeling to him without a second thought. There were…others. So many others. Vamps, Skinwalkers, Shifters, Kitsune. Hell, I'm pretty sure I saw a Banshee there too. We were all bowing to him.

There were times when I would look upon his face and it was like…a memory would surface. A memory full of pain and fear and tragedy. But then it would just…disappear, and I would be whole again.

At first we would do small things for him. Murders, thefts, and the like. Just little things. But he always wanted more. He wanted to go deeper. Some of us, particularly the Shifters, were integrated into the government. I, due to my size and age, was put into different schools. My specialty was taking children of officials and ransoming them, while taking a wee snack at the same time. Young children always taste the best. Not a lot of medications and fats in the blood.

But he grew bored again. As he always did.

One day I was reporting in. I was standing in this posh room. All I can remember is wanting to take off the damn wool uniform I was in. I was impatient. Got in over my head. I was cocky. I…I stormed in.

It was standing behind him. I had never…never seen anything like that before. I had met so many creatures; other vamps, Wraith, Wendigo. But never…

I didn't find out until later what it was.

A Demon.

A goddamned Demon, straight out of Hell, with a big ass grin on its goddamned face.

And the one I considered my God…was nothing more than a puppet.

I think that sight…it scared me. More than I had ever been scared before. And suddenly it was like a veil lifted, and I saw what had been happening.

He was no God. He was a man. He was…he was the man who murdered me. For the fun. For the kicks.

James-fucking-Moriarty.

I tried to tell many of the others. I did help a few get free. Some had been trying to reject the urgings for years. The stronger willed ones. We ran. We escaped.

Most of us got separated. I ran to America and started running with this crowd."

Carl took a breath, squeezing his eyes shut. Then he looked up slowly and met Molly's eyes. She backed up a step.

"Have either of you wondered why there aren't as many monsters in England? Why we all seem to be gathering and running as far and as fast as we can.

We all feel it. We all hear it. The voices sound in our heads, making us even more maddened than our nature intends us to be.

Something…big is coming. We can all feel it. So we are going to move as fast and as far away as we can before it swallows us up and turns us into slaves again.

Something is coming."

* * *

><p>At the end of his speech Carl slumped over, his energy spent. Molly had set her gun down and was clenching her hands together to keep them from shaking. He glanced over at Sherlock. He had gone pale and his eyes gleamed in the setting sunlight.<p>

Suddenly a loud crack made the two humans jump. Carl just glanced up before looking back down again.

"You two just about done here?" Bobby asked as he walked up behind Sherlock. He glanced down at Carl and his eyebrows knitted together.

"Yes, I believe so," Sherlock said, his actions never betraying the emotions raging through him.

"Molly…kid you okay?" Bobby asked suddenly.

"Fine Bobby. Just…tired."

"Right, well…I'll leave you to it then. Don't forget, someone's gotta get those kids home. Rufus and I have already got the others."

Bobby walked away as Sherlock cast a questioning glance at Molly.

"I know their mom. I promised I would get them back to her."

"What do we do with him?" Sherlock gestured towards Carl. Molly pursed her lips in thought. Carl glanced up at her.

"Detach me from this freaking wall. I'll make my own way."

"No dice mate. I can't let you go around murdering others."

"No good on the conscience, huh?" Carl let out a gruff laugh. Molly grinned slightly and shook her head. Carl copied her and then allowed his chin to drop to his chest.

"I know what you are going to do. So just get it done already. I've been waiting for this day for…well, since the day I was reborn."

Sherlock glanced over in confusion, but it all became clear when he noted the look on Molly's face. He took in a deep breath.

"So just like that? We just…wash our hands of him?"

Molly's eyes drooped in sadness.

"Sherlock, no one ever said that this…lifestyle was fair. It is my job to eradicate the world of monsters. And Carl is a monster."

"There must be somet-"

"There isn't."

This time it was Carl talking. He shrugged.

"She's right. I'm a monster; I've murdered, raped, and ruined the lives of plenty of people."

"That was never your choice," Sherlock countered. He didn't understand why he was standing up for this creature, only that he felt like he owed the young man. For what, he didn't know.

"Yeah, but neither was it my choice to get murdered. I've had a lot of choices taken from me."

Molly sighed heavily and pulled out her machete.

"Wait, can I have one last request?"

"And that is?"

"One last meal. Don't the guys on death row get a last meal?"

Molly glanced up at Sherlock, and then started rolling up her sleeve. Sherlock shot out a hand and grabbed her wrist.

"Allow me."

Sherlock rolled up his own sleeve, exposing his flesh. Carl licked his lips as his fangs descended. Sherlock flinched but didn't cry out as the needles broke through his skin. Blood pooled around the wounds only to disappear a moment later as Carl suctioned it into his mouth. He gulped, his adams apple bobbing as he drew Sherlock's blood from his arm. Molly watched for a moment longer, and then pressed her machete against Carl's jaw.

"Enough."

Carl took one last draw in defiance, then slowly pulled away. Molly's nose curled as blood rolled down his chin, and nearly gagged when he licked it up. Sherlock stumbled away, clutched his hand around the wound. Molly tore a strip from Carl's shirt, ignoring his indignant 'hey!', and wrapped it around the wound.

"Will you go check on the children?" she asked softly. Sherlock, his mind hazy with blood loss, nodded. He walked away slowly, careful not to stumble. When he left the small clearing Molly turned back to Carl.

"Good idea sending the lover boy away. Now you and I can have some fun," the boy leered. Molly rolled her eyes as she got a better grip on her machete.

"For what it's worth, I am sorry about this," she said as she walked up to him. She gripped the weapon holding him in place and, in one swift motion, tore it from his body. He cried out and slumped back. His eyes met Molly's before closing shut. She saw the exhaustion written clearly across his face.

"Just do it and be done with it. I'm tired. I'm so freaking tired. I'm done with this world. It's been nothing but…rubbish."

Molly swung her arm back, her blade flashing in the faded light. His eyes burst open one last time.

"Just remember this…it takes a monster to kill a monster."

The thud resounded through the clearing as Carl's head struck the ground and rolled under a bush. Molly let go of the machete, a stricken look gracing her features.

* * *

><p>"So it's done then?" Sherlock asked when Molly walked back into the warehouse. She nodded, sitting down next to him on a box.<p>

"Did we really have to kill him?" he asked softly. Molly stayed silent. Sherlock sighed before pushing himself off of the box and over to the children. Molly clutched the edge of the box as she tried to will her hands to stop shaking.

When she felt a little more in control she stood up and walked over to the little group. She crouched down in front of the two children. The little boy looked like he had fallen asleep standing up. The girl was fighting exhaustion herself.

"Hey there kids. C'mon, let's get you home."

She took the little boy into her arms, who passed out almost as soon as his head hit her shoulder. Taking a page from Molly's book, Sherlock went to pick up the girl.

"I ain't a baby," she snapped. Sherlock backed up a step and gestured her to take the lead. She walked forward but soon it became obvious that she was almost too exhausted to do that. He scooped her up into his arms bridal style and carried her out to the car. She was almost too tired to put up a fight. Almost.

"I dislike this as much as you do," he snapped at her when she called him something particularly nasty. Molly peeked up from where she had the boy buckled in the back seat, his head resting on a makeshift pillow, and grinned.

Finally the four were loaded into the vehicle and were on their way back to civilization.

Sherlock slept off and on. Twice they had to stop to fill up the tank and let the kids use the restroom. He would have as well but one look at the truck stop bathrooms had him thinking twice.

They drove nearly the entire length of Texas. At one point they stopped to allow Molly to get some shut eye. Sherlock, much to his chagrin, agreed to take the children to a nearby park. At the previous stop they had bought the children some clean clothes. Molly had just tossed out the old, blood-spattered night clothes.

While Ashleigh, as the girl was called, pushed Roddy, the boy, on the swings, Sherlock sat at a bunch. He nursed a coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He was sneering at the horoscopes page when he felt the bench shift slightly as someone sat across from him. He lowered the newspaper to see a grinning woman staring him down.

"Hi there!" she said in a falsely chipper voice. Sherlock took a sip of his coffee instead of saying anything. A lesson that John had always tried to instill in him was that if he didn't have anything nice to say to not say anything at all. A childish concept, in Sherlock's eyes, but in this case it might come in handy.

"Are those your kids there?" she asked, her false smile still on her face. Suddenly it clicked for Sherlock; a lone man at a playground with two kids who looked nothing like him. This was a recipe for disaster. Sherlock put on his best acting face.

"Yeah they are. Just thought we'd make a pit stop and let the kids' burn off some energy. Been cooped up in a car all day," he said, taking on a southern accent to try and match Ashleigh's. The woman mouth pressed together in a thin line.

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, names Shea. Those are my kids Ashleigh and Roddy."

"Is that so? And where are you headed off to Shea?"

He noticed her glance up at his hair, and then over to the kids. Sherlock began to search his mind for some excuse or another. Then he remembered something one of the men who worked with Lestrade had said. He had been blathering on about his ongoing custody battle with a wife in another country.

"Just taking the kids back to their mom. She makes me pick them up for the summer and drop them off before school starts. Not the most ideal, but at least I get to see my kids for a time."

He adopted the best 'wistful dad' look he could as he glanced at the two kids. He caught Ashleigh's eye. She glanced between him and the woman before leaving her brother to his devices and walking over. Sherlock put his arm around Ashleigh.

"This nice woman doesn't believe that you are my kid," he said to Ashleigh. Her eyebrows rose into her hairline before her face became bored and she looked over at the woman.

"Um, duh. Roddy and I look like our Mama, with the complexion and hair, but I got Daddy's nose," she said, pointing to said spot on her face. The woman looked between the two before deflating slightly.

"Oh," she said softly.

"And I got Daddy's attitude," the girl continued. Sherlock squeezed her shoulder, but she just grinned. The woman stood up as Roddy walked over.

"Well…have a lovely trip with your father children," she said before walking away quickly. Roddy looked at the two, confused.

"You ain't our daddy," he said. Ashleigh began to giggle and soon Sherlock joined in. Roddy laughed even though he didn't know why he was laughing.

A little while later when the children felt worn out they returned to the car. Molly sat up as Sherlock helped buckle Roddy in.

"Did you kids have fun?" she asked as she tried to rub the sleep from her eyes.

"Oh yeah, loads of fun. Didn't we, _Dad_?"

Molly glanced up quickly. Sherlock just shook his head as he finished buckling Roddy in.

"Cheeky brat."

"What the hell did I miss?"

* * *

><p>Sherlock was relieved when they finally pulled in front of the kid's house. The incessant 'are we there yet' were getting on his nerves.<p>

A blonde woman who looked like an adult version of Ashleigh stood on the porch. Her face lit up and a smile stretched across her face as Ashleigh jumped out of the car before it could come to a complete stop. She ran to the woman and jumped into her arms, allowing herself to be twirled around and hugged tight to the woman's bosom. As Molly parked the car Sherlock turned around to help a struggling Roddy with his seat belt before he too bolted from the car.

Sherlock and Molly got out as the mother ushered the two children inside. She stood on the porch as they stepped forward. She held out a flask with a cross on the front.

"You understand," she stated, almost apologetic. Molly just took the flask and took a quick sip before handing it off to Sherlock. He did the same and watched as the women visibly sagged in relief. She invited the two in.

"We can't stay long," Molly said as they wiped their feet on the threshold. The woman shrugged in understanding. Suddenly she had her arms wrapped around Molly.

"Thank you so much. I don't know-" she stopped and stepped back, wiping her eyes on her sleeve as she did so. Then she turned around and did the same to Sherlock. He was quite taken aback before he pat her on the back hesitantly.

"Sorry," she said as she backed off of him.

"It's okay," Molly said as she searched her pockets before pulling out a handkerchief. She handed it to the woman who loudly blew her nose into it.

"May I ask you something?" Sherlock asked the woman as she guided him and Molly to the small kitchen table. He could hear the two children somewhere in the background along with running water.

"Of course," she said as she pulled a couple of beers from the fridge. Sherlock quelled the urge to roll his eyes. What he wouldn't give for a well-made cup of tea. But he took the beer so as to not be rude.

"You are a hunter, yes?"

"Yes. I've been hunting since I was a bit younger than Molly."

"Then why have children? You know that they will be targets, and can be used against you."

"Sherlock!" Molly whipped around in surprise to glare at Sherlock. He ignored her. The woman, on the other hand, didn't even flinch. A small, sad smile appeared on her weary face.

"I never planned on having kids. Doesn't really…coexist with being a hunter. Or, I thought so. But when I got pregnant with Ashleigh I did get out of the game. Wanted a normal life. But when you've been involved in this world, even for a short time…it changes people."

Molly visibly flinched. Sherlock glanced at her, but ignored it for the moment to turn his attention back to the children's mother.

"And you can't really escape it. Ashleigh was about four months old when we got attacked by a werewolf. I had dealt with them in the past. It was easy enough to put down. But the whole time I just kept thinking about my daughter in the other room."

"She was a distraction," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. She shook her head.

"No, not in the least. No, thinking about my daughter made me fight harder. Made me _need_ to be stronger for her. Because I knew that if this thing got past me it would go right for her next. And I couldn't allow that to happen. Do you have children?"

"No."

"Having a child is the single most terrifying and most fulfilling thing in the world. Try and think of the greatest thing you have ever done. The greatest fulfillment in your life. Well that thing you are thinking of? That is nothing compared to having a child. You suddenly realize that this little being is a part of you. It depends on you for everything. And not just food and warmth. It depends on you to show love, pride, joy…it's so different from anything else.

So you ask why I would have a child, knowing the life I lead could bring me to harm? Well, it's simple really. As a hunter you don't have much to live for. You strive to live as long as possible, and to take as many of the bastards out as you can before you go. But when you have a child you are suddenly given something to live for. Something…someone, that will go on loving you even after you feel like a murderer. Even after you have dug up a grave or laid waste to a nest. It's…it's not just fulfilling. It makes you feel…whole. At least, that is how it works for me."

Sherlock gazed at the woman in what could almost be considered awe.

"You are very surprising," he finally said.

"I'll consider that a compliment."

Molly had been sitting silent as she watched the exchange. She was getting ready to open her mouth when suddenly two very wet children came bowling into the room, breaking the reverie in the process.

"Mamma, can Sherlock and Molly stay for dinner?" Ashleigh asked as she shook her wet mane, splashing water droplets on the adults in the room.

"Ashleigh, how many times do I have to tell you to towel your hair out so you don't drip? And that is really up to them," she said, glancing at the two.

"Actually we should really get going," Molly stated as she stood up. Suddenly two sets of arms wrapped around her legs.

"Thanks for saving us Molly," Ashleigh said.

"Yeah, fanks," Roddy agreed. Molly patted their heads with a soft smile before they let go and turned to Sherlock. They did the same thing to Sherlock, who looked both surprised and, shockingly, delighted to be receiving such praise from the two children.

Ashleigh then held something out to Sherlock. He took it with some apprehension until he realized it was a conch shell.

"That's my lucky shell. I found it on the beach when Roddy and I were hiding while Mamma hunted."

"Thank you Ashleigh, but I can't take t-"

"Yeah you can, and you will. So there," she said, crossing her arms. Sherlock grinned and placed the shell inside of his pocket.

The mother thanked them one last time before they finally pulled away.

"C'mon, I know a good bar here in town. I need a drink," Molly said.

"You didn't touch your drink at the children's house."

"Wasn't strong enough," was all she said. Sherlock stared at the woman but didn't say anything more.

* * *

><p>Sherlock sipped at his red wine as he watched Molly down her third shot of Jack Daniels before she ordered another.<p>

"You never struck me as a heavy drinker," he stated. She shrugged.

"I have a better tolerance than most. I won a lot of drinking contests in college, that's for sure."

Her accent had become muddled, a bad mixture of southern drawl and prim British. It was making Sherlock's head ache, and the racket some men were making in the corner didn't help. He watched her take her fourth shot before deciding that she was 'sloshed' enough to answer some of the questions that she had been trying to avoid for nearly two days.

"You barely spoke a word back at the house. You seemed a bit…preoccupied."

"It's nuthin'" she said softly as she took a sip of water that she was using as a chaser. Sherlock shoved her shot glass away from her before she could ask for another. He motioned to the bartender and asked for two cups of hot, strong tea. The bartender nodded before taking his wine glass and her shot glass away.

"It wasn't _nothing_. It was something Carl said, wasn't it."

"Sherlock…" Molly sighed. Sherlock turned until his entire body faced Molly, a trick he had learned from John to show that he was paying full attention and ready to listen. He barely registered that the tea was set in front of him. He took a sip and curled his lip in disdain. It tasted like he had just boiled some beer and threw a few plants in for good measure. He placed the cup away from him, noticing Molly do something similar after a quick sip of hers. She sighed again and folded her arms before laying her head on top.

"I…do you think I'm a monster?"

If Sherlock was taken aback he didn't show it. Instead he reached out and put a hand on her arm.

"Why do you-"

Sherlock's world suddenly went dark. He felt his head fall forward and hit the counter, hearing a similar thunk next to him before everything went fuzzy.

* * *

><p><strong>I was honestly thinking about leaving this as a cliffhanger, but since you guys have been SOOOOOO patient with me and my madness these last long months, I decided not too!<strong>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sheeerlock….wakey wakey Sherlock Holmes. <strong>_

_Waking up was too much work. Everything was so…heavy. His limbs were heavy. His eyes were heavy. Even lifting a finger felt like pushing a boulder up a hill._

_**Well c'mon then. I thought the great Sherlock Holmes would be tougher than this. **_

_Sherlock grunted and groaned as he struggled to push himself up. He felt sweat travel in rivulets down his face as he finally got onto his feet. His knees shook as he stood up straight._

_**Thaaats better. I knew you could do it. Now, step forward like a good boy.**_

_Sherlock couldn't even find the strength to lift up his foot. He pushed it forward like an elderly man, shuffling his way forward. _

_Suddenly gravity shifted._

_Sherlock nearly fell forward as he was suddenly able to take a step forward with no resistance. He heard the disembodied voice that had been teasing him begin to laugh._

"_Who are you!?" Sherlock yelled to the voice. _

_**Nuh-uh-uh. Noooot yet. See that door in front of you? Go through it.**_

_Sherlock was about to ask 'what door' when suddenly there was a door smack dab in front of him. Sherlock nearly stumbled when he realized it was the door to 221B. _

"_I will not," he said, trying to step back. But as hard as he tried his feet would not go backwards. Suddenly what felt like giant fingers wrapped around his middle. The door flew open. Sherlock shouted as he was pulled through._

* * *

><p>"<em>What the-where am I?" he asked, but the voice did not answer. Sherlock stood up and looked around the room. It was…it was his home. Sherlock felt a strong pang in his heart as he took in the familiar surroundings. He suddenly realized how homesick he was. He then began to note the changes.<em>

_It was…cleaner than it used to be. The stacks of paper were in neatly stacked boxes on the end of the table. The rest of it had what looked like the remains from a recent breakfast. Plates were stacked on top of one another as though ready to be carried to the sink. _

_He noticed a fire was crackling in the fireplace, which was odd since Sherlock and John had rarely used to fireplace accept for special occasions. He then noticed that the mantle was lined with pictures._

"_What?" he murmured to himself. A picture of he and John took up one corner. It was pressed into a lovely gilt-edged gold frame but he could see some slight fraying, as though it had only been put into the frame recently. Next to that was a much better quality picture of Sherlock and his brother Mycroft. Both were forcing smiles for whoever was taking the picture, which was a surprise in itself. _

_Sherlock stopped when he came to the next frame. His eyes began to bug from their sockets as he took in the photo. He looked so…happy. Content. Sherlock didn't think he could make a face like that. And in his arms…_

"_No…no it can't be," he muttered. _

_He reached up to pluck the frame off of the mantle to get a closer look when he suddenly heard a muffled thump and then quick footsteps above him. He put the picture back onto the mantle and turned to the door. He had barely a moment to register that the person standing in the doorway was far too short to be who he was expecting when the person launched themselves at him. Quick thinking and some deep-seated instinct allowed him to catch the flying body just in time._

"_Daddy!" the little body yelled. Sherlock nearly dropped her in surprise but, instead, hitched his arm under her rear and balanced her on his hip. _

"_Mummy! Mummy, Daddy's home!" The little girl called out, her voice echoing throughout the entire flat. Sherlock took a quick moment to study the little girl. She couldn't have been more than five, or maybe a small six, with curly dark hair not unlike his own and green eyes. She was swimming in a two-sizes-too-big pink dressing gown and she clutched a worn stuffed cat in her hand. _

_Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, anything, to try and correct this situation. His mind ran a mile a minute and, to his shock, he couldn't calm it down. He was, for lack of a better word, confused. Utterly, deeply confused. _

_A loud cry from the direction of where his bedroom used to be distracted him. He ignored the fact that he had yet to put the little girl down as he made his way to the hallway._

_Unexpectedly the door whipped open._

_Sherlock gasped. He couldn't help it. Couldn't hold it in. _

"_Molly?" he croaked, staring at the woman in front of him. It was Molly but she looked so…different. She had cut all of her hair off; leaving it in a short bob that accented her features. She was also in a short night gown, something he had never seen her wear before. It hugged at her body in a way that Sherlock didn't find…unappealing._

_But the most surprising thing was the little squirming blanket in her arms. An arm shot out, grasping at the air, before another cry issued from the blanket. Molly held it close and made shushing noises._

"_Joanna, how many times do I have to tell you not to yell? Now look, you've woken up Robert," she chastised as she tried to comfort the crying baby. She leaned forward and kissed Sherlock's cheek._

"_It is lovely to have you home dear, but I thought you and John were going to be in Dublin until Monday?"_

_Sherlock found himself answer, although he knew not where the words came from._

"_We solved the case early, and I just wanted to get home to my special girls," he said with a smile, even though inside he was shouting, wondering how all of this had happened._

_Molly smiled and held the baby out to him. Sherlock lifted a hand stroked the downy hair on top of the baby's head. He grunted slightly and turned his head towards the touch. _

"_Not to mention my little boy," he whispered. Molly's smile lit her face up before she pulled the baby tight to her chest and gave her daughter a chastising look._

"_All right young lady, you know it is far past your bed time. Off to sleep with you. You will see Daddy in the morning."_

_The girl began to pout. Molly smiled and kissed her on the forehead before winking at Sherlock and turning back into the bedroom. Sherlock carried her back into the living room and set her down before crouching down on one knee to match her height._

"_Will you be home in the morning Daddy?"_

"_Yes, of course I will," Sherlock found himself saying. He absentmindedly began to smooth some of her fly away hairs. He realized what he was doing and pulled his hands back to his chest. _

"_Okay. Goodnight Daddy. I love you!"_

_The little girl kissed the tip of his nose then bounded away up the stairs. Sherlock, still crouched down to child level, froze. He felt like his heart was about to beat out of his chest and his emotions went array. While most people thought that Sherlock didn't know or understand emotions, that wasn't quite the case. It was better to say that he just hid his emotions better than most. But right now hiding them, tamping them away in that secret place in his mind palace, was nearly impossible._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Amazing, isn't it?<strong>_

_The disembodied voice was back, and this time it was behind him. Sherlock jumped up and whipped around and came face to face with one of the strangest men he had ever seen._

_He was dark skinned, obviously of African descent, with long dark hair and long limbs. He smiled and a gold tooth winked out between his teeth. At the current moment he was sitting down in Sherlock's chair, his long legs spread out in front of him. His pants were once a dark purple but were now festooned with patches of different, festive colors. His patchwork coat of the same caliber hung open to reveal a dirty white poets shirt. He wore no shoes and no socks, just gold rings around his toes. A top had adorned his head, a big red plume curling up and around like some mad musketeer hat. He held a cane in his hand. On top of the cane was a clear crystal ball with a mass of what looked like long roots inside._

"_What is amazing?" Sherlock asked as he placed his hands behind his back. He began to pace around the man, trying to pick up anything about him. But, try as he might, Sherlock was coming up with nothing. Except, of course, that the man was mad as a hatter._

_**That the thing that scares you the most is considered the most innocent thing in the world. A child. Haa!**_

_The man let out a honking laugh. Sherlock clenched his fists behind his back._

"_What is this place? Why am I here? Is this some, I don't know, _vision _of the future?" he shouted, his patience running thin as much as his confusion grew. _

_**This is a Dream. Your dream, to be precise. **_

"_This is no dream of mine," Sherlock scoffed._

_**Isn't it? On the surface you act so crass, so horrid, to those around you. But inside. In those little, dark corners in the recesses of your mind, you want this. You want this baaaad.**_

_He was mocking Sherlock, but Sherlock refused to bite. _

"_Who are you?"_

_The man grinned, showing off row upon row of teeth._

_**You may call me Morpheus.**_

_Sherlock snorted._

"_Morpheus? Like the Roman god of dreams. How bloody original."_

_**You are a funny man. I like you. **_

_Sherlock turned his back to Morpheus like a sullen child giving a parent the cold shoulder. He heard the man laugh again._

_**Ignoring it will not help. This image, this experience, it is all ingrained in your head now.**_

"_What the hell do you mean by that?" Sherlock growled, whipping around to face Morpheus._

_He was gone._

_**Understand this Sherlock Holmes. What I have shown you is not the future, but an idea of what the future **_**could**_** be. It is your decision if you wish to continue upon the path you are currently walking. But know that it will end in loneliness and suffering at your own hand. **_

"_What…what do you mean?"_

_**Only that you will have some very important decisions to make in the near future. Choose wisely. **_

_**And remember; no one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path.**_

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat up with a jerk that nearly toppled him off of the surface his was lying down on.<p>

"Sherlock!" he heard Molly yell. His vision, still blurry from sleep, was taken over by a concerned face. His eyes flicked up to her hair and he sighed in relief to see that it was still past her shoulders. She must have misinterpreted his sigh because the next thing he knew her face became extremely worried and she placed her hands upon his shoulders.

"Sherlock are you okay?"

"Molly, I'm fine," he placed his hands upon hers to placate her. He felt a jolt in his lower stomach as he gripped her cold fingers. She pulled away, to his minor regret, and seated herself next to him.

"What in the hell happened?" he asked her, rubbing his forehead as he felt a sudden headache come on. Molly surprised him by groaning and falling back onto the surface they were seated on. It was then that Sherlock realized that they were sitting on a bed in a hotel room. He glanced over and saw another bed next to his, the covers knotted and strewn about. He noticed that their bags were in the corner of the rather small room, but they looked to be unopened. He also saw the car keys sitting on the table, and underneath those looked like a slip of paper.

"I'm sorry Molly, I was distracted," he said when he realized she had been speaking to him.

"It's okay; I'm still a bit out of it myself. I said that our tea was drugged. I should have known better. I recognized the taste, but I was so preoccupied-"

"And intoxicated," Sherlock interrupted. Molly glared at him.

"Hush you. Yes the drinking probably had something to do with it too."

"You said that you recognized it. What was it?"

"Ubulawu."

"Come again?"

"Its English name is African Dream Root. It's typically used in South Africa in spirit rituals."

"That is educational, but unneeded. What I want to know is how in the world did we end up ingesting it. And, more pressing, where the hell are we?"

Molly gave Sherlock an exasperated look and stood up. She walked over to the table and took the slip of paper off of the table.

"A while back the guys needed some African Dream Root to use for a hunt. I was able to help them because I had some connections who knew someone through the grape vine who grew the stuff."

"Was his name Morpheus?" Sherlock asked. Molly gave him a confused look.

"No. It was Ulisse Devereaux. He sold the stuff on the black market. We didn't get along very well. He was a stuck up brat who fancied himself some sort of…well, a sort of god. He would sell the root to people, then go in and mess with their dreams. Sometimes it was bringing past memories to the surface; sometimes it was making someone relive some trauma in their life. He wasn't a bad guy, but he liked to think he could control someone's fate, just with their dreams."

"Their fate…did he also quote Buddha?"

Molly looked puzzled for a moment before nodding.

"Yeah, he fancied himself a deep guy. Read a lot and liked to use that when he went into others dreams."

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes.

"So he got to you too then? I was sort of hoping he would just hop into mine and leave you out of it. Sorry," Molly added. Sherlock shrugged and steepled his hands under his chin.

"So why the drugging then? Obviously he didn't do anything to us, didn't steal anything. So why did he feel the need to play in our dreams?"

"Oh, well…when I came to collect the dream root for Bobby, Ulisse was in a bit of a pickle with a couple of people. Long story short I basically saved his arse. He told me that one day I would need his help and he would offer it without a thought. Never heard from him after that. I was sort of hoping he would just buy me a lunch or a drink or something. But no, he was just gone…until today that is."

She held up the paper. On it was just three words.

_**Now we're even**_

Molly scrunched up the paper in her hand and dropped it into the wastebasket nearby.

"At least he was nice enough to put us up in a motel. The bar we were at is just right down the road."

"So what did he show you?" Sherlock asked as he walked over to search his bag. He peeked over at her. Molly shrugged but he could see a slight blush creep along her cheeks. He found himself smiling at this as he unzipped the bag.

"Not much, honestly. Right up until the very end things got interesting though. He told me I could find all of the answers I need in Kansas and to ask around. So after I woke up and saw you were still asleep I decided to call Bobby. Turns out there is a psychic named Missouri Mosely there. She used to help John Winchester."

"A psychic? Psychics don't exist."

Molly raised an eyebrow at Sherlock.

"Says the man who just woke up out of a plant-induced dream state controlled by a mad man after defeating a boat load of blood sucking vampires. Not the mention the fact that one of those vampires was a dead boy from your childhood."

Sherlock set his toiletry bag on the table, a contemplative look on his face.

"Touché," he said after a moment. He began to head into the bathroom when he was stopped by Molly's questioning voice.

"Sherlock, what did Ulisse show you?"

Sherlock stopped, a hand on the door frame to steady himself.

"Nothing important. Don't worry about it."

Molly shrugged and went over to the bags as well. Sherlock stared at her a moment longer, an almost wistful expression crossing his face. Then he shut himself in the bathroom and didn't come out until he felt as though a layer of skin had been scalded off.

* * *

><p>(<em>Back to the present)<em>

"You know, instead of pretending to sleep why don't you take the wheel so that I can sleep," she said. Sherlock sat up and glanced over at Molly, who raised an eyebrow at him.

"You know very well I don't have an American driver's license."

"Yeah, but you know how to drive in America."

"That is not the point."

"No," Molly huffed. "The point is that I've been driving for hours and I am exhausted."

Molly saw what looked like a flash of genuine concern flash across Sherlock's face, but it was gone when she turned to get a better look.

"Pull over," Sherlock sighed after a few moments of silence. Molly pulled over gratefully and they switched sides. Molly was grateful that he hadn't taken his shirt. She lay against it and inhaled a scent that was all Sherlock. She was starting to fall into a deep slumber, but not before hearing Sherlock exclaim, "If we get pulled over, on your head be it."

"Whatever, shut up," she mumbled before falling into a deep sleep.

Sherlock glanced over at her sleeping form and smiled. She twitched slightly and he realized that she was dreaming. He placed a hand on her arm, just below the shoulder, and she visibly relaxed.

He drove through the better part of the evening, stopping once so that he could use a rest stop that didn't look nearly as frightening as some that he had seen.

The sky began to turn a dusty purple as the sun slowly rose above the horizon. Sherlock began to contemplate his own dream. _The_ _Dream_ as he has started to call it.

He didn't want to take any of Morpheus's, or Ulisse's, or whatever he was called, cryptic sayings to heart. But he couldn't shake the feelings that he had.

Seeing that picture on the mantle had set him off. It was unmistakably him in the picture. But he was in a position that Sherlock had never once visualized himself being in.

In the picture he had been holding a newborn baby. It could have been the girl, or it could have been the baby boy, but either way Sherlock couldn't shake the feelings that picture had brought on. In it he had looked so content and so proud. He hadn't even been looking at the camera. He had been staring at the infant as if it could answer all of the questions in the universe.

Sherlock remembered what Ashleigh and Roddy's mother had said; becoming a parent, having a child, was the single most terrifying and fulfilling thing in the world.

Sherlock also remembered the feel of the little girl in his arms. She had felt so solid. So real. He could smell her, a mixture of bubble gum toothpaste and green apple shampoo. He could feel her shift as she got comfortable.

And he could remember how the infant boy's skin had felt under his fingertips.

Sherlock jolted up in his seat, trying to push the memories back where they belonged. But as hard as he might they kept jostling to the front of his every waking thought.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock jumped. Molly stared at him with wide eyes.

"Sherlock maybe I should finish this last leg. You look like you are about to pass out."

"I'm sorry; I guess I'm not used to driving for so long."

"I could tell, you were starting to drift to the other side of the road."

"Old habits," he shrugged with a slight smile. He pulled to the side of the road and he got out. He walked around the trunk as Molly climbed into the driver's seat. Once he was in the car she smiled at him.

"Last stop: Lawrence, Kansas."

* * *

><p>Only a few hours later they pulled in front of a small house. Molly parked the car on the edge of the street and together they began to walk up to the front door. Suddenly the door opened wide. Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise as he took a step back.<p>

"It's…it's you," he stuttered. Molly looked at him in shock before turning back to the woman. She smiled at the two of them.

"You know her?" Molly asked as she began to wonder if she could reach her trunk in time to find her gun.

"We…we met at the airport in London. We talked about…me!"

"Molly don't you even think about getting your gun out. Now, Sherlock, both of you, inside. We have quite a lot to talk about."


	11. Asmodeus

**Hello everyone and, once again, sooooo sorry for the long wait! Work has been insanely hectic and when I get home my brain just goes into shut down mode. Honestly the only days I find the brain power to get any writing done is my two days off, and those are errand days. Soooo yeah…**

**Anyway, enough with my drama. **

**Btw, wasn't Sherlock Season 3 AMAZING! I'm trying to find a way to shove Mary into this story. I just love her :D**

**Disclaimer: I do not own these lovely shows!**

**Curtains raise, lights on, now on with the show!**

* * *

><p><strong>Just a wee recap-<strong>

Only a few hours later they pulled in front of a small house. Molly parked the car on the edge of the street and together they began to walk up to the front door. Suddenly the door opened wide. Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise as he took a step back.

"It's…it's you," he stuttered. Molly looked at him in shock before turning back to the woman. She smiled at the two of them.

"You know her?" Molly asked as she began to wonder if she could reach her trunk in time to find her gun.

"We…we met at the airport in London. We talked about…me!"

"Molly don't you even think about getting your gun out. Now, Sherlock, both of you, inside. We have quite a lot to talk about."

* * *

><p><strong>And on with the show my lovelies!<strong>

Molly sat on Missouri's Mosely's couch. The couch had seen its fair share of years, evidenced by Molly's nervous picking at one of the threadbare holes along the corner.

"Child, that couch is torn up enough as is!" Missouri yelled from the kitchen. Molly jumped and placed her hands in her lap. Sherlock, from his position on the other side of the couch, raised an eyebrow at her antics.

"How in the hell are you able to keep such a cool head?" she whispered at the man.

"How are you not?" he retorted. Inside, however, was a whole other story. He was reeling at the fact that he had met this woman before. That she has basically _said_ that she knew it was him, and he hadn't caught on that fact. He would blame it on the stress of faking his own death, and leave it at that.

A moment later Missouri entered the living room, a tray in her hands. She set it on the table in front of them and began pouring tea into two dainty china cups. Sherlock grimaced at the gaudy roses that adorned the cups.

"If you don't like my cups you don't get my tea," the woman suddenly interrupted his thoughts. Molly snorted as she picked up the cup and took a sip.

"Oh! It's good!" she exclaimed. Missouri, who had sat down in a chair across from them, raised an eyebrow. Molly grinned sheepishly.

"Sorry. It's just…not many American's can make good tea the way we like it."

"We?"

"Um…Britts," Molly stammered, cowed by the woman and her intense gaze. Meanwhile Sherlock leaned over and picked up his own cup before taking a sip. He was pleasantly surprised to discover that Molly was right; the tea was good. Better than anything he had sampled in this country thus far.

"You aren't the first British folks I've entertained. And you won't be the last. Now, why did you come here?"

"You are the psychic. Surely you know exactly why you are here," Sherlock asked, his voice taking on a haughty quality. Missouri wasn't quelled, however. She just put her hand on her hip and raised an eyebrow at the lad.

"And surely you can humor me, Mr. Holmes."

"How are we to know you are a real psychic?" he asked simply, his eyes meeting hers in a staring match. Molly glanced between the two; a short, plump, bona-fide southern woman and the straight backed, lean, hawk like detective. She then realized that, despite appearances, these two people were evenly matched.

"Not…not the interrupt all of…this-" Molly waved her hand between the two adults, flinching when their eyes turned to stare at her.

"…But I have to agree with Sherlock. I've met plenty of weird people over the years, and seen plenty of odd things, but I've never met a real psychic. A couple of…of fakes, of course. But none that could actually do anything that could convince me that they were, you know, real."

Molly trailed off. The look Missouri was giving her was downright scary. Molly knew that she could face down a vamp or a wendigo without flinching, but this woman chilled Molly to the bone. After another moment of silence Missouri shrugged and picked up her tea, a picture of innocence.

"All right then. What would convince you that I am the real deal?"

"A test," Sherlock said straight away. Molly glanced over at him, a question in her eyes, before nodding.

"Right…a test. Um…what is my cat's name?"

"Toby," Missouri answered without hesitation. Sherlock shook his head.

"No, that won't work," Sherlock snapped, his eyes never leaving Missouri's face.

"What? Why not?"

"It's on your blog Molly," Sherlock stated, more than a hint of exasperation entering his words as he turned to face Molly.

"Oh…right. Umm…what about-"

"No, too obvious. Again."

"It wouldn't be _all_ that obvious. And besides that you didn't even know what I was going to say!"

"Mrs. Hudson's first name is easy enough to Google."

"…oh. Then why don't I know it?"

Missouri grinned behind her tea cup at the banter between the two. She knew where their future would lead, or at least one of their possible futures, and watching it form right in front of her live was more than a little entertaining. She wiped the grin off her face when Sherlock turned back to her.

"Who was my childhood companion, and what was his name?"

Sherlock grinned. Only a select few people knew this little bit of information, and even they kept it a secret because they knew how much he disliked people knowing.

"Redbeard."

Sherlock faltered, his eyes widening. Molly glanced over at him.

"Redbeard?" she parroted. Missouri nodded.

"An…Irish Setter, if I'm not mistaken. And a loving one, at that. It was a shame that he had to be put down, but-"

"Enough."

Molly stared up at Sherlock. She had not seen such raw emotion flash across his face since he had asked her to help him fake his death.

"I wasn't trying to upset you Mr. Holmes. But you asked, I answered. Is it enough proof for you?"

Sherlock took in a deep breath to steady himself. To his surprise he felt a soft touch on his hand. Nothing massive. No twining of the fingers, no caressing with the thumb; just a light touch. He glanced down and saw three of Molly's fingers pressed gently to the top of his hand. He looked up at her in surprise, but she refused to meet his face. After a moment she pulled her hands back into her lap.

"Now, are we done with your Q & A? Because, from what I can tell, neither of you have much time left to dawdle."

"What do you mean?" Molly asked.

"What do you think I mean? Both of you have a rather important destiny, and it's about to come to a head. And soon, from what I've seen."

"What have you seen?" Sherlock interjected. Missouri shook her head.

"Sorry sweetie, this gift doesn't work that way. I can give you hints to help, but I can't tell you the entire gist of it."

"Because you don't know?" Sherlock scoffed. Missouri met his eyes.

"Because I'm afraid of giving away too much and leading you down the wrong path."

"What do you mean?"

"I think," Molly interjected this time. "I think what she means is that there isn't just one set future. It's like…it's like _Doctor Who_."

Missouri smiled while Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh come on, don't tell me you've never seen it."

"John tried to get me to watch it, but I was far too busy…besides that the idea of a man traveling through not only space but _time_ in a 1950's police box is so farfetched-"

"As farfetched as ghosts, vampires, and demons?"

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and glared down his nose at Molly, who just grinned before turning back to Missouri, who was smiling herself.

"Molly has the best idea. I can't tell you what will happen because there is no one set version. Your decisions that you make determine the course of your future. I have seen your destinies end in multiple different ways. Some good…some not so good."

Molly nodded in agreement, but she felt a shiver make its way down her spine.

"So what can you tell us?" she asked. Missouri's face took on a business like expression. She sat back in her chair and placed her hands on her knees.

"You spoke with the vampire boy, Carl Powers, yes?"

Sherlock gave a sharp nod.

"Then you know that James Moriarty is not the real culprit in all of this."

"He still sold his soul to control monsters," Molly pointed out.

"Yes, but that is beside the point. The fact of the matter is James Moriarty is as much a victim as you two are."

"Carl made mention of a demon controlling Moriarty. But I'm not sure how-"

"It depends on the demon," Molly muttered, interrupting Sherlock's tirade.

"Exactly. Some demons, like Crowley, are just salesmen. Very little going on 'up there' other than where they can find the next soul. But others…others are nasty business."

"Like Azazel?" Molly asked.

"Who?" Sherlock murmured whilst Missouri nodded.

"Exactly."

Molly turned to Sherlock.

"Azazel murdered Sam and Dean's mom when Sam was just a baby. That is what started John hunting. But it was more than that."

Molly hesitated, wondering if she should share Sam's secrets, until she remembered what he has done to her only weeks before. Her face grew stony at the thought.

Sherlock watched the myriad of emotions flow across her face but didn't interrupt her.

"Um, so, yeah…Azazel not only murdered John's wife, he also infected Sam with his blood. Long story short he was basically trying to create the perfect host for Lucifer."

"And he almost succeeded," Missouri muttered.

"I sometimes wonder if he did succeed."

Missouri didn't say anything to that. Her abilities allowed her to know exactly what had happened, and, more to the point, what was going to happen. But she just pursed her lips and continued on as if nothing had been said on the subject.

"As it is there _is_ a demon controlling James Moriarty, and it isn't Azazel."

"Then which one is it?" Sherlock asked. Missouri pushed herself out of the chair and headed over to a bookshelf. She pulled out a book that Molly and Sherlock both recognized; _Binsfeld's Classification of Demons_. She flipped through the pages until she found what she was looking for before setting the book down in front of Sherlock and Molly. The two leaned forward, their foreheads nearly touching, as they looked down upon the pages.

"Asmodeus?" Sherlock asked. He leaned back as Molly grasped the book and pulled it closer to them.

"I remember reading about this one. According to Binsfeld he believed he was one of the seven princes of Hell; one of the seven deadly sins."

"Truly?" Sherlock asked as he took the book from Molly's hands. He began to read aloud.

"Lucifer, that of Pride; Mammon, that of Greed; Leviathan, that of Envy; Beelzebub, that of Gluttony; Amon, that of Wrath; Belphegor, that of Sloth; Asmodeus, that of…Lust."

"Seems fitting," Sherlock stated. Missouri nodded in agreement. Confusion graced Molly's features.

"If Moriarty where to be any of these I would say perhaps wrath. Or more probable, pride," she stated.

"You are translating it far too literally. Lust isn't just about sex in this case. Lust can be a lust for property, a lust for money, or, in Moriarty's case, a lust for power."

"That makes sense…far more sense than it should," Molly confessed. Missouri produced another book from her bookshelf and handed it to Molly.

"This is _The Magus_ by Francis Barrett and it gives a different idea about demons; the princes are more based around attitudes then actions. You see on this page-" she opened the book and pointed to a paragraph-" it states that Asmodeus was the demon of 'vile revenges.'"

"Sounds like a right cheerful chap," Molly murmured as she skimmed the page.

"But what does all of this mean?" Sherlock asked. Missouri sat back down and stared the two down.

"A demon of lust and revenge doesn't just take control of a man, sold soul or not, for no reason. Particularly a man that has his sights set on you, Sherlock. This thing has bigger plans. This demon isn't like Azazel. It is stronger and far more independent. Azazel was a lap dog compared to this one. You two need to stay strong and realize that it may take more than just the two of you to take this thing down."

Molly nodded in understanding, but inside she was worried. This was becoming far bigger, far more involved, then anything she had ever encountered in her life.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was feeling calm. They were nearing the end of it all; finally he was going to get the answers he so craved and, perhaps, his life could get back to normal. He realized, suddenly, that he was missing normality, or what he had considered normal in his life.

He happened to glance down at Molly when another thought came to him; nothing would be quite normal again. Not if that dream, _the_ dream, was any indication.

He turned away and barely managed to catch Missouri's eye. She winked at him as if she knew what he was thinking about.

"So where do we go from here, if you don't mind me asking," Molly's voice broke through Sherlock's thoughts. Missouri turned to her.

"The only thing I can say is that answers are forthcoming."

Molly opened her mouth, possibly to argue, when suddenly her cell phone started going off. She glanced at the two apologetically before going into the other room, leaving Sherlock and Missouri alone.

"Or right now," she murmured with a grin. Sherlock stood up and began to pace in the small living room. Missouri ignored him in favor of her tea.

"So you know what I am about to ask," Sherlock stated. Missouri glanced at him.

"I _am_ psychic."

"Then just give me the answers I need."

"No."

Sherlock whipped around to glare down at the woman, who barely looked up at him as she sipped her tea. He put on the most intimidating stance he could muster despite his discomfort. She was unfazed.

"No?"

"No. I'm not one to be commanded. And, besides, I like to watch you squirm," she said slyly. Sherlock deflated slightly before turning his back to her. In the same moment he clenched his fists and turned back around. He walked over to the doorway and listened to Molly's muffled voice in the other room.

"You have about 3 minutes. So ask," Missouri commented. Sherlock growled somewhere deep in his throat before turning to face the woman. He tried to look calm, as if nothing could bother him, but she knew otherwise.

"The…the dream that was…_forced_ upon me…"

"Yes?" Missouri asked innocently when Sherlock faltered.

"Is this…dream…could it…could it be a reality. One of those…futures that you have seen?" he asked, his teeth gritting together. Missouri sighed and pushed herself up out of the chair. She walked over to Sherlock and placed a warm hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock, the only people that can determine our future is our selves. So, if that is the future you wish to have, then you only need to work towards that goal. No one else can determine our path."

Sherlock glanced down at the woman.

"I think, in this sense, I'm not the only one that could make said…future happen," he stated, his head reclining to indicate the room that Molly had disappeared into.

"Well, if it helps, I'm pretty sure Molly wouldn't be opposed," Missouri stated slyly.

"Opposed to what?"

Sherlock whipped around to face Molly, but before he could answer he noticed the odd look on her face.

"What has happened."

Molly pressed her lips together and slightly waved her phone in the air.

"It was a hunter friend of mine in England. She…she had some news for me."

"Molly?" Sherlock asked softly. He couldn't interpret the look on her face. She looked like she had seen a ghost. He gently placed his hands on her shoulders.

"Molly, what has happened?"

Molly met Sherlock's eyes.

"I'm not sure what it means but…someone dug up my parent's grave site. And…their bodies are missing."

Sherlock's eyes widened. Suddenly Missouri cleared her throat. The hunters turned to look at her.

"Now you have your answer. You know what you need to do."

* * *

><p>Molly and Sherlock loaded themselves in the car and, with a quick wave to Missouri, they took off. Neither saw the look of trepidation that crossed the woman's face as they drove away.<p>

Both hunters were silent as they contemplated everything that had happened in the last two days. Molly could feel the utter exhaustion of the last week catching up to her. From fighting the coven of vampires, to dealing with a dream-tampering psycho, to speaking with a real live psychic. And now they were suddenly going to be going back to the one place Molly had never planned on visiting.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock suddenly asked, breaking through Molly's thoughts.

"Back to Bobby's. We need a plan of attack, and I need a full night's sleep."

Sherlock nodded before turning back to the window. He felt like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. Now, finally, they were getting somewhere.

"Hey Sherlock?"

"Hm?" Sherlock glanced over at Molly, who kept her eyes on the road.

"Redbeard? Was he your childhood dog?"

Sherlock stared at her for a moment before turning his face away from her. He didn't like talking about Redbeard. He could still remember the day they, his parents, had told him that Redbeard needed to be put down.

"Rumsfeld."

Sherlock shook his head and furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

"That was…random. Rumsfeld?"

"He was my Redbeard. 'Cept he was a Rottweiler."

Sherlock nodded his head slowly. Molly continued without acknowledging the discomfort on Sherlock's face.

"And he wasn't put down. Meg, a demon, killed him. Or, at least, that's what Bobby thought. She showed up and we never saw Rumsfeld again."

"Oh I'm…sorry?"

"It's okay."

* * *

><p>With everything that had happened Molly didn't think her mind, racing with ideas and clouded by fear of the unknown future, would allow her to fall asleep. However her physical exhaustion took hold and she was asleep within minutes.<p>

While Molly slept Sherlock slowly paced through Bobby's front room. His fingers were steepled before him. He took in a deep breath and soon found himself racing through his 'mind palace.' He felt like things were finally coming to a head. His whole being had become jumbled over the last few weeks and months. Everything had changed, the world had changed; but now it was all becoming right again. Normal.

Well, almost normal.

Because, even if everything went back to the way it was, there was still the nagging voice in Sherlock's head that sounded a bit too much like Morpheus. Reminding him that he could have more; that he could have beyond what he was used too. He could have love. He could have family. He could have-

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock whipped around to come face-to-face with Bobby.

"Dammit boy I said yer name at least three times! Where were you?"

"In my mind palace," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"In your…you know what, I ain't even gonna ask."

Sherlock smirked as the man sat down heavily behind his desk. Sherlock was a bit put out at the fact that he had been interrupted, but he was finding that he was becoming far more easy going to the annoyances of the world then he used to be.

"So, England," Bobby said after taking a quick shot from his flask. Sherlock 'um-hmm'ed as he took the seat across from Bobby's desk. The older man sighed and leaned his head back.

"_Balls_."

* * *

><p>Sherlock took a seat next to the window on the plane while Molly took the aisle seat. It was a small plane, just a puddle-jumper to get them to a larger airport where they would be boarding their international flight. Sherlock glanced around as Bobby shoved a large duffel bag into the overhead compartment. Rufus, in the window seat opposite, watched him as well with a grin on his face.<p>

"C'mon old man, it ain't that hard. Just shove it in!"

"Shut up imbecile. I know what I'm doin'!"

"Men," Molly groaned as she pulled a magazine from the back of the seat in front of her. Sherlock started to watch her; the way she moved when she turned a page or the way the corners of her mouth would pull up slightly when she found something humorous but not enough for a full-fledge smile. Suddenly she huffed and shut the magazine as the flight attendants began their safety lecture. Sherlock turned away from her to look out the window at the people on the tarmac.

"So…this is it," he heard Molly say. He turned back to look at her, this time meeting her eyes.

"It?"

"It. As in the end. We're finally going to get this son-of-a-bitch," she said, vehemence in her voice.

"Or die trying," he said to her.

"Which is far more likely than I would like to think," Rufus interceded.

* * *

><p>"You have to wear the hat Sherlock," Molly said as they stood in the men's bathroom at the Atlanta Airport. Molly has realized mid-flight that, while it wasn't a big deal for Sherlock to look like Sherlock in America, it was a far different story in England. People knew him there, and they would recognize the man with very little issue; and considering that Sherlock was still supposed to be dead that would raise some rather massive alarms. So Molly had to make do with some of Bobby's things from his carryon bag and a few purchases from the stores around the airport.<p>

"If you hadn't dyed your hair back-"

"You were the one who encouraged it," Sherlock scoffed as he buttoned up one of Bobby's flannels. His toes curled tightly in the two-size too small cowboy boots. But the thing he dreaded most was on the other side of the stall doors being held in Molly's hands.

"Oh c'mon it won't be all too bad. It was either this or a fake mustache."

Sherlock sighed. He was almost wishing he had gone with the stereotypical Frenchman look that Molly had suggested. At least the large, ugly glasses and the crudely drawn-on eyeliner mustache couldn't have been as bad as this.

"Molly, why are you in the men's room anyway?" he snapped at her. He could almost feel her roll her eyes from the other side of the door.

"Just hurry up," he heard her huff before she left the men's room. Sherlock took a few moments to compose himself before he tucked his shirt in and left the men's room as well.

Molly tried, and failed, to stifle a giggle as Sherlock stood in front of her. She has seen him in a number of outfits that weren't quite _him_, but this just took the cake. She held out the grungy trucker hat, which he took with more than a little discomfort, and placed it upon his head, effectively hiding the curly locks. He held out his arms and spun around.

"Oh yeah, that totally works. I like it. I like it a lot. Now c'mon, we're supposed to be boarding in about half an hour."

The two walked over to their terminal, made their way through security, and found Bobby and Rufus just in time for the boarding to begin. The two men took one look at Sherlock and began to guffaw, their mirth making a few people turn around.

"Oh, son, that is a great look on you. We'll make you into a true southern boy yet," Rufus said as he clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. Sherlock glared him down but Rufus just brushed it off. They boarded the plane without incident and were soon on their way back to England.

* * *

><p>Four hours into the flight Sherlock found himself dozing off. Molly had already fallen asleep hours before, her head falling to the side until it came to rest on Sherlock's shoulder. He had allowed it and had even scrunched down into his seat slightly to make up for their height difference. He had also found that he did enjoy the smell of her rose scented shampoo.<p>

As Sherlock began to fall asleep he felt his head cushion against Molly's. His eyes flickered as he leaned into her warmth. He was unaware of the two men across the aisle staring at them.

"Hm. Well that's interesting," Rufus remarked as he took a drink from the more-expensive-then-its-worth beer that he had bought when the flight attendant came around.

"Yeah," Bobby remarked softly.

"You worried about them?"

Bobby turned to the man and raised an eyebrow.

"Aren't you?"

Rufus stared another for a beat, and then shrugged.

"Nah, not really. They're tough kids. They can take care of themselves."

Bobby nodded and sighed. He wasn't sure he felt the same way that Rufus did.

* * *

><p><em>Before the group had left for England Molly had confided in Bobby. Sherlock had mentioned a bit about what had happened to he and Molly when they were in Louisiana, but hadn't gone into express detail other than the fact that he would "never again order tea that I have not seen being made."<em>

_That morning Rufus had shown up with his bags in tow and, while he and Sherlock packed up the vehicles, Bobby went to find Molly and let her know that it was time to go. _

_He found her standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom. She was clad in nothing but in a towel and her hair was still wet. She just stood, staring, at her reflection. But Bobby could tell that, while she was there physically, mentally she was a million miles away. _

"_Molly? Mol?" Bobby said softly. He could remember when she was little she used to do the same thing; she would spend hours just…staring. When she was upset, when she was scared, she would just shut herself down. _

_When she had first gone to live with him it happened almost every day. It didn't even matter where she was; school, home, the shop. She would just…stop. It had taken her years to get to the point that shut downs like this were such a rarity. In fact, Bobby couldn't even remember the last time it had happened._

"_Molly," he said a bit more forcefully. He placed his hand on her shoulder and shook her slightly. _

_Suddenly it was as if a light had switched on. Molly gasped and turned to face her uncle. She pulled the towel up a bit higher and turned her face away in shame._

"_Molly, what happened?"_

"_Nothing," she said quickly as she turned and grabbed the brush from the counter. She began to run it through her hair roughly, flinching as each tangle struggled to stay knotted. Bobby sighed and took the brush from the girl and began to gently run it through her straggled hair._

"_Haven't had to help you with this since you were little," he remarked. Molly sighed, but a grin made its way onto her face._

"_I was eleven. I wasn't that little. Practically a teenager," she whispered. Bobby laughed softly._

"_Well you were little to me," he stated. He hesitated a moment as he ran the brush through her hair. _

"_Molly, what happened?"_

_Molly grasped her shoulder and leaned her face into her hand. He gave her a moment to collect herself, and then asked once more. She sighed again and turned to look in the mirror, her eyes meeting Bobby's._

"_It was the dream."_

"_The one that you had when you got spiked by the dream root?"_

_Molly nodded._

"_Sherlock told you I'm guessing?"_

_This time it was Bobby's turn to nod. _

"_He told me that you had dreamt that you needed to visit Missouri's. That wasn't it though, was it?"_

_Molly pulled away from him and sat down on the toilet. Bobby placed the brush back onto the counter and turned to his niece. _

"_That wasn't it."_

_Bobby nodded and kneeled in front of Molly._

"_What was it? What did you dream about?"_

_Molly averted her eyes as Bobby got closer. _

"_Uncle, what…what happened when you had to kill Aunt Karen?"_

_Bobby nearly fell back onto his arse in surprise. His eyes widened and a rush of anger superseded all of his other emotions._

"_What the hell sort of question is that? What do you think happened? I killed her!"_

_Molly didn't even flinch. She was used to her Uncle's outburst of anger._

"_That's not what I meant Bobby. I meant that, when you had to kill her, how could you…how could you bring yourself to do it? How…how were you able to kill the woman you loved?"_

_Bobby gaped at Molly, who still refused to meet his eyes. He pushed himself up off of the floor and leaned heavily against the counter. He felt his hands moving to grasp the flask that he kept in his back pocket when he heard Molly let out a strange sound. He looked down at her to see a couple of tears escape her eyes. _

_In that moment he realized what she needed. She didn't need her drunken Uncle, the man that had caused her constant humiliation growing up and who had pushed her to be a stronger, tougher woman. She needed, in that moment, a father. Someone she could turn to. Someone who wouldn't judge her, and wouldn't make her feel unwanted or judged._

_Bobby got closer to the girl and bent back down, a groan escaping his lips as his old knees creaked and struggled to get him down into the squat position. Molly laughed slightly as she attempted to wipe away the tears. _

"_You're getting old, Old Man," she murmured. Bobby joined in her soft laughter. _

"_Yeah, I know kid."_

_The grin left his face as he raised a hand and placed it gently on Molly's hand._

"_When…when your Aunt Karen was possessed she was no longer herself. She was someone else. And I hadn't known a god-damned thing about demons or hunting. All I knew was that she wasn't the woman that I had married. And when she began to talk about all of the things that she would do after she killed me, all of the…all of the people she would kill…"_

_Bobby trailed off. Molly finally turned and met his eyes before turning away again. Bobby grasped her hand in his tightly._

"_It was not a decision I made for myself. If I could of, I would have given myself up in her place. I…I did it because I knew that I had to save all of those other people."_

"_Kill one, save hundreds," Molly murmured. Bobby nodded._

"_And I'm not saying that made it any easier. Christ you've seen what I've become. I've lived with the guilt every single god damned day."_

_Molly placed her free hand over her throat as she tried to keep the sobs that she had bottle up from coming out. She swallowed hard and bit her bottom lip hard enough to bleed._

"_Why are you asking me this? Why do you want to know all of this?" Bobby asked Molly as he watched her reaction. There was a moment of silence before Molly turned her head once more to meet Bobby's eyes._

"_Because," she rasped past the lump that had gathered in her throat. She coughed and tried again._

"_Because when Ulisse visited me in my dream he…he wasn't himself. He liked to joke, play pranks…but he was so somber. He just kept saying he needed to show me something. He said that he had been told to show me this…this dream."_

"_Told? By who?"_

"_He didn't say. But he…he showed me these images. These…god Bobby it was awful."_

"_But what does that have to with-"_

_Bobby stopped when he saw the look on Molly's face._

"_Because, Bobby, if the things he showed me comes true…_

_I'm going to have to kill Sherlock Holmes."_

* * *

><p><strong>Oooooh goodness! And I shall be stopping there for now. I wanted to put a bit more onto it, but then I figured it was either get it out today OR go another week or two before I could get it out. As always, please review, favorite, follow, etc! And I will try to have the next chapter out ASAP! Love ya'll!<strong>

**Craven**


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